With Coble’s faithful words lingering in her mind, Anneliese ascended the endless staircase. Her pulse pounded, each step carrying her deeper into the labyrinth of doubt left by their last encounter. The memory coiled within her thoughts, a tangle of unanswered questions and spiraling uncertainty.


    At last, she reached the cloud-veiled cliff face, where faint lights flickered, marking the Temple’s hidden passage. She hesitated, her gaze lifting to the sun’s erratic orbit around the cone-shaped ridge. Time unraveled before her eyes—days bleeding into hours, weeks dissolving in the endless cycle of the sky. Whether illusion or reality, she no longer cared. The task remained, and she pressed forward, traversing the jagged path toward the torch-lit arches before stepping inside.


    The Temple of the Last welcomed her with a vast, oval atrium, its heavy air stirring with the restless motion of unseen spirits, slipping past as if they had somewhere urgent to be. From the shifting pillars, Lascivious’s mocking visage surfaced—a sneer warping across the crumbling stone, his presence woven into the temple’s decay, watching, waiting, amused by her return.


    At the infinity fountain, no longer shadowed by Kulum’s unconscious body, the water churned with an unsettling intensity. A flicker of movement at the edge of her vision made Anneliese turn—just as a sudden eruption of heat tore through the lower platform, a fiery manifestation engulfing the boy of fragmented accents.


    “They say you must become whole—mind, body, and spirit,” came the trembling voice.


    Kulum stood at the heart of the inferno, shirtless and shivering despite its blistering heat. The fire lashed at his skin, wild and unrelenting, mirroring the battle waging within him. His breaths remained steady, but his twitching limbs betrayed the struggle to control the demon entwined with his soul.


    “I hear you’re the chosen one,” Anneliese said, keeping her distance from both Kulum and the swarm of wayward spirits spiraling around him.


    “As are you,” Kulum replied, a hint of jealousy curling around his words. His focus wavered, but he clenched his jaw and re-centered himself, returning to his meditation before the tremors overtook him.


    “Ravenna must say that to everyone,” Anneliese muttered.


    Kulum shook his head. “It wasn’t Ravenna.”


    “Coble?”


    “You have no idea what I’ve endured because of him,” Kulum said, his voice taut with fury. Smoke puffed from his eyes as fissures of blue flame erupted around him. This was no illusion—no harmless fire born in the safety of the stronghold. It was a raw, untamed inferno, so intense that even Anneliese was forced to shield her face. She slipped into her transient state, but the heat followed, searing her skin, parching her lips.


    “It’s not like I had it easy,” she countered, but the words caught in her throat as the flames twisted, momentarily shaping into Lascivious’s grinning face before pulling her violently back into her physical form.


    Kulum’s voice cracked. “You still have people who love you. I have no one.” His fists clenched as he wrestled with the blaze threatening to consume him. “They say there’s magic inside you greater than any wizard alive. Yet somehow, I am the chosen one.”


    “Enough,” Anneliese snapped, her own frustration rising as she flicked her wrist and extinguished the flames in an instant.


    “You see what we’re up against?” came Ravenna’s voice. She emerged from the shadows, replenishing the scented essence at the fountain’s edge.


    “She’s not my enemy,” Kulum murmured, his breathing slowing as he forced himself into stillness. Steam curled from his fingers. “It’s not her fault.”


    “Good, Kulum,” Ravenna murmured, guiding the floating essence into perfect symmetry.


    Anneliese turned her sharp gaze to the elder mystic. “You know why I returned?”


    Ravenna sighed, dismissive as ever. “Another pointless question. You living are a burden—or at least, to me.” She gestured lazily to the stone pillars, which began to shift and reform.


    “Simonet? Cestmir?” Her voice faltered as she rushed forward.


    Simonet’s pillar solidified into a golem, the late mother’s reformed right arm appearing as jagged stone. Nearby, Cestmir’s hunchbacked figure took shape, his hands deformed into crumbling stone fists.


    Anneliese throat tightened. “If you’re here, then...”


    “It is what it is,” Simonet said. “I’m here now and that’s what matters.”


    Anneliese brushed her hand against the rough surface of Simonet’s arm. “You shouldn’t have…”


    Simonet shook her head. “Back in the village, when the Vikings took my arm—that was you who saved us, wasn’t it?”


    Anneliese hesitated. “More my demon than me.”


    “No,” Simonet said firmly. “It was you. Greater forces may guide us, but we own our destiny. I glimpsed golden gates, heard the angels’ chorus, but my place is here—to remind my savior she’s needed now more than ever. And I’m not going anywhere.”


    “I hate to intrude,” Cestmir interrupted, his voice slicing through the chamber, scattering the spirits like fish fleeing a predator, “but Bishop Arcadius has won the battle of Keesh. There isn’t another pagan force strong enough to stop him. With Sir Bradfrey at their head, they’re only days away from reaching the plateau.”


    Kulum’s expression darkened. “What about Verivix?”


    “I assume he’s in the same dirt-lined coffin as me,” Cestmir replied dryly.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    A brief chuckle escaped Kulum’s lips, the tension in his shoulders easing as the steam between his fingers faded. “How many? How strong?”


    “Any man who can afford a sword and bears enough guilt to seek redemption,” said Cestmir.


    Kulum shrugged. “That does not scare me.”


    “You may lack fear,” Cestmir replied, “but charge in headstrong and na?ve, and it will find you—just as it found me.”


    “You underestimate my magic,” Kulum said, undeterred.


    Cestmir’s gaze darkened, his voice slowing as he stared blankly, lost in the memory of his final hours. “I watched. An army of battle mages, brought to ruin by a regiment of mere mortals. We unleashed ungodly magic—poured everything we had into them—and barely left a mark.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Don’t think for a moment this is a battle we know how to win.”


    Anneliese turned to Ravenna. “Well?”


    The mystic groaned. “It’s futile. We’ll all be dead soon enough.”


    “If you don’t care, why help Kulum?” Anneliese challenged. “Some part of you still believes in the chosen one.”


    Ravenna rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She turned, her voice ringing through the chamber.


    “LASCIVIOUS.”


    The demon’s name shattered the air.


    With a slow, deliberate clap, Lascivious emerged from the farthest pillars, his face alight with smug satisfaction. “What an introduction. Here I was, wondering if you truly intended to stop Arcadius—only to be summoned by this nihilistic witch. But I digress. How may I indulge my loyal subject?”


    Anneliese fought the revulsion rising in her throat, forcing herself to meet the demon’s gaze as an equal. “You know how to defeat Arcadius?”


    Lascivious smirked. “Please, it’s Master Lascivious.”


    “Lascivious,” she corrected impatiently. “You were right—we need you. But defeating Arcadius matters as much to you as it does to us. So, what do you say?”


    Her admission was like sweet nectar to the demon. He sighed, relishing it.


    “Ahh, exquisite. Very well. Arcadius is not the ancient. He’s a telepath—unnaturally persuasive, yes, but that alone is insufficient. No, his mind bends to the will of a parasite: the ancient Id.”


    “Id exists in the magical realm?” Anneliese asked.


    “If only,” Lascivious replied. “The ancient Id is a fascinating manifestation—simultaneously spiritual, magical, and physical. It exists in all realms at all times, using Arcadius as its physical conduit.”


    Simonet frowned. “The holy trinity?”


    “Not quite. But imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Not that the Id doesn’t believe itself to be the second coming,” Lascivious mused, his tone laced with sardonic amusement. “Unlike your little prophet, however, Id is a parasite of the spiritual kind—an insidious corruption masquerading as salvation, draped in the robes of the old order. It feeds on belief, preys on prejudice, and infests its followers with the illusion of righteousness.”


    Cestmir frowned. “What of the monks? I’ve seen them deflect all manner of magical projectiles.”


    “Ah, the Gutian,” Lascivious purred. “Parasites as well—but of a different breed. A single will spread across many minds, fused into one insatiable hunger. They have no interest in Id’s grand design—only in the sustenance it provides. And so they cling, feeding, guarding, ensuring their volatile mother endures… until the bitter end.”


    “I don’t understand,” said Cestmir.


    “The Gutian feed on Id’s magical essence,” Lascivious explained, his voice almost indulgent. “Id is pure magic—unstable, chaotic, impulsive. Left unchecked, it would burn itself out before reaching its full potential. The Gutian stabilize it, tempering its volatility while fortifying themselves. Arcadius controls the physical realm; Id consumes the spiritual. But without the Gutian, Id would be too erratic, too vulnerable to challenge the Church.”


    Anneliese exhaled. “A symbiotic existence. The Gutian keep Id in check, while Arcadius feeds Id the souls of those he controls. Each made strong by Id magic.”


    Lascivious grinned, wide and sharp. “That is, until the Day of Uniformity.” He spread his arms dramatically, scattering the lingering spirits. “At which point… well, imagine hell on Earth. Not that it matters—we’ll all be long dead by then.”


    Anneliese squared her shoulders. “How do we stop them?”


    “Kill the Gutian and see what happens,” Lascivious said with a careless shrug. “Or, weaken their master just enough—let the Gutian’s hunger fester until they drain Id’s essence, leaving him a withered husk. And without Id to sustain them…”


    He spread his hands in mock solemnity. “The starving Gutian will turn on each other instead. No Id. No Gutian. And Arcadius? Reduced to a handful of lost, insignificant disciples.”


    “By ‘weaken their master,’ you mean what, exactly?” Anneliese asked, her gaze sharp with suspicion.


    “Disrupt the symbiosis.”


    “His followers? The Church?”


    Lascivious’s eyes gleamed as he flicked his fingers in an exaggerated explosion, scattering the surrounding spirits. “Either, or. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to embrace my deliverance?”


    “You’d just as readily sacrifice the innocents for the same cause,” Anneliese replied.


    “Then your alternative?” Lascivious replied, his voice dripping with mockery, “Hide and hope Arcadius dies of old age before Id achieves uniformity.”


    Her gaze sharpened. “That’s why Id knows you. You’ve been here before—only to shelter in the protection of the stronghold.”


    Cracks spider webbed across the pillar that held Lascivious, stone splintering away as his true form emerged—lanky, frail, no taller than Anneliese. The weight of his presence, once suffocating, had diminished, leaving only the remnants of something that had once been far greater.


    For the first time, he looked small.


    Lascivious’s grin faltered—just for an instant. Then, as if sealing the fracture in his carefully crafted fa?ade, he chuckled.“Shelter? My dear Anneliese, such an uncharitable word. Let’s say I exercised patience.”


    She stepped closer. “You hid.”


    “More biding my time,” he admitted, crossing his spindly arms. “But hey, what’s another century? Survive the storm, conquer the new day.”


    Anneliese’s voice trembled with realization. “After all this time, I thought you needed a puppet. But it was never about me—it was always about Arcadius. You needed someone strong enough to clear the path, so the next soul could serve your purpose.”


    Lascivious’s grin thinned. “Careful, now,” he murmured. “You’re nothing without my magic, and I’m perfectly willing to restrain myself.”


    Kulum, no longer a quiet observer, stepped forward. “If Id is tied to Arcadius, then why not kill him?”


    “That’s not how it works,” Anneliese sighed. But her words were lost as the conversation took on a life of its own.


    “He has an army,” Simonet said.


    “My demon can take them. He’s done it before,” Kulum countered.


    “You won’t get past the Gutian and their protective shield,” Cestmir argued.


    “Not without Anneliese,” Ravenna added, flicking dust from her nails.


    “That’s not how it works!” Anneliese shouted, silencing them all. “If Arcadius dies, Id will just find another conduit, and we’ll be right back here again in… who knows how long.”


    Ravenna leaned against the wall, her gaze half-lidded. “Simonet,” she murmured, absently scolding the chaotic spirits disrupting the symmetrical floating essence.


    “Sir Bradfrey may not be amiable to our cause. But if Anneliese can make clear the choice between good and evil, he’ll defend her. And by his leadership, the rest will follow,” Simonet said.


    Cestmir’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling over the spot where Sir Bradfrey’s blade had once pierced him. “Arcadius against Vasier’s favorite son… It’s a start.”


    Lascivious’s smirk faded. “To truly eradicate Id, you must extract its spirit from the magical realm.”


    Anneliese stilled. “That’s why Bjarke is here.”


    With her realization, the torches sputtered out. Darkness swallowed the chamber, save for the fading embers at their feet. The shifting pillars solidified, and Ravenna was gone—vanished into the void.


    Anneliese and Kulum stood alone. The fountain’s essence nearly burned to ash, leaving only the illuminated archway before them.


    They were the last generation of magic. Vasier’s only hope. Not the heroic wizards of legend—but the flawed and the demon-possessed of the present.