Chapter 65

Chapter 65
Alaric POV

Two days.

That’s how long it had been since Abby and Prince Damian Lucien left for the capital. Two days since I’d last seen her smirk, her spark. Since I’d felt her lightning graze the air beside me like an unspoken promise.

And in those two days, we’d barely pushed through a third of the rift’s first wave.

Ten casualties now. Ten warriors who had fought and bled under my command, their bodies burned and broken beyond saving. I’d ordered the camp perimeter reinforced twice. Sent scouts twice as often. It wasn’t enough. The rift was stronger than any we’d faced before — as if something was feeding it from beyond.

And there I was. Kneeling in the mud, the acidic blood of an orc hissing against my boots as I pried another mana stone from its remains. My hands, gloved and tired, stained with soot and ash. The air was damp with mist and dread.

Then I felt it.

A crackle.

A sizzle through the air, hot and sharp like the kiss of lightning on skin.

Abby?

No — it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her particular spark. This was wrong.

I spun around just as the sky split open. A blinding bolt of white, too fast for any man’s eyes to follow. And then —

Pain.

One moment, I was standing. Sword in hand. The next — I was flying backward, air knocked from my lungs, ribs shattering like glass under a hammer. I hit a tree with such force the bark split.

My sword was gone.

No — not just my sword.

My hands.

Both of them.

Gone.

I looked down in horror. Blood gushed from severed wrists, bones exposed, nerves screaming louder than my voice ever could.

The earth shook beneath me. Through the haze of agony, I saw him.

A hooded figure. Cloaked in black. Mana so dense around him it felt like drowning in a stormcloud. The world dimmed except for him. He wasn’t human. Or if he was, not anymore.

His voice was silk and steel when he spoke:

“Where is the Lightning Goddess?”

My mind, blank with pain, still snapped to her. Abby.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

So he stepped closer. Raised a single hand. Black flame roared from his palm, searing into my chest like a brand. I screamed.

Fire. Cold fire. It wasn’t just heat. It was rot. Decay. Like every vein in my body turning to ash from the inside.

And still, through it all —

I refused to say her name.

The figure stood over me for a moment more. Silent. Judging. Then he turned. His voice echoing like thunder:

“Tell her… the storm isn’t enough.”

And he vanished.

The world went dark.

———

When I opened my eyes again, I thought I was dead.

It smelled like old rain and moss. The air cool and dry, no pain in my body. I blinked up at the canopy of ancient trees. Moonlight filtered through cracked bark.

And there, sitting by a small fire, was an old man.

Silver hair. Pale eyes. Worn black robes that spoke of some long-forgotten title.

He looked at me. Calm. As if this was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re awake,” he said. “That’s good.”

I tried to move. My body ached but —

My hands.

My hands were there. Whole.

I sat up too fast, breath catching. “Who—”

“My name is Max,” the man said, voice even. “Or, as they call me now, the Demon Lord.”

Silence rang between us.

It wasn’t a joke.

I’d heard the name whispered in court rumors. In bedtime stories used to scare children. A man from centuries ago. A mage who had turned himself into something worse.

And he was sitting here, looking like nothing more than a tired old sorcerer.

“I saved your life,” Max added, as if that explained everything. “Didn’t want you bleeding out. The storm girl would be angry.”

Abby.

My jaw clenched. “Why?”

“Because things are moving faster than they should,” Max said quietly, poking at the fire with a stick. “The mage who attacked you… isn’t from this world. Not fully.”

“What does that mean?”

Max didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached behind him and tossed something toward me.

A grimoire. Bound in black. Familiar.

“I know her,” Max said simply. “And I know what’s coming.”

I caught the book in my lap, still numb. My hands trembled slightly — whole hands, as if nothing had ever happened.

“This isn’t your fight alone anymore,” Max murmured. “It’s hers. Yours. The prince’s. And mine.”

He looked up at me then. Silver eyes sharp as a blade.

“Tell her,” Max said, voice dropping lower. “The past doesn’t have to repeat. Not this time.”

And as the fire crackled, I finally understood.

This wasn’t just a battle.

This was history trying to consume itself again.

And I would not let Abby stand in the center of it alone.



ABBY POV
Capital Palace — The Day the Sky Broke

It was sunny that morning.

The kind of sun that paints the marble halls in gold and tricks you into believing the world isn’t unraveling beneath your feet.

Birdsong fluttered through the stained-glass windows. The palace courtyard bustled with spring. I was standing in the royal greenhouse with the Queen and the royal mage, still reeling from our late-night ritual, my heart aching from the dark spell I had dared to confess learning — summoning magic.

They were horrified. The Queen went silent, her fingers clutching her pearl necklace as if I had stabbed the royal crest itself. The mage sputtered and crossed himself with a sigil of warding.

Only Prince Lucien remained calm.

“The dead may be the answer,” he had said, his voice deep and quiet, gaze fixed beyond the garden. “If their mana stones carry what the living cannot…”

It was a heavy thought. But the weight of his words hadn’t fully landed until just past noon, when the skies above the capital shifted.

It started with wind.

A sudden gust, ripping through the flags along the western tower. Then came the bell toll. One. Two. Three slow, heavy clangs from the southern wall.

A warning.

“Your Highness,” a palace guard burst into the room, soaked with sweat and blood. “It’s the Rift.”

My stomach dropped.

“The expedition?” the Queen asked, her voice sharp.

The guard faltered. “They’re gone.”

Gone.

“No,” I whispered, my throat closing.

“There were screams through the comm stones. But then—silence. All of them. The rift pulsed… and now it’s sealed. Not closed. Just—sealed. Like it's feeding. No mana can pass through. No contact.”

I staggered. The world tilted.

“What about Duke Alaric?” I asked, but my voice didn’t sound like mine.

The guard shook his head.

“No survivors.”

My knees gave out.

I barely felt it when I hit the marble. The guards were shouting. The Queen barked an order. But all I could hear was blood rushing in my ears.

No.

Not Alaric. Not my Alaric.