Morning light was a rare treasure in Dystyx, but when Syrith and Averith broke through the river's tunnel into a hidden grotto, shafts of pale sun crept between stalactites, illuminating an ancient dock. Weathered boats, carved with draconic runes long since faded, lay half-buried in moss. At the far end, a figure stood waiting—a tall man in ash-gray leathers, one eye covered by a bone mask splintered into seven ruby-red facets.
"Roukhal," Averith whispered, dread tinting her voice.
The one-eyed mercenary inclined his head. His remaining eye was a molten gold orb that studied them both. "You're late," he said, voice low and grating like gravel.
Syrith's gaze sharpened. "You told me you knew the name of the one who killed me."
Roukhal's lips curved in a half-smile. "I know more than a name. But first—payment."
Averith pressed closer to Syrith. "He wants the Heart of the Storm shard."
Syrith's heart thundered. That fragment, still concealed within Averith's blood, was the last piece of the artifact that anchored his fallen godhood. In the wrong hands it could unleash calamity; yet it might also awaken his buried power.
"I have no treasure," Syrith said quietly.
Roukhal's mask tilted. "Oh, but you do. You have that storm-fire humming beneath your skin. That's the price."
Syrith staggered. Lightning flickered across his veins, as faint as a dying ember yet undeniable. The mercenary reached out a gauntleted hand. "Yield it—let me bear the shard until you prove yourself worthy of vengeance."
Averith's violet eyes flashed. "You would take his life-force?"
Roukhal shook his head. "I would guard it. Until your storm is strong enough to claim it back."
Syrith's mind raced. He could snatch the shard by force, but then Roukhal might destroy it or refuse to return it. And without it, his full power would remain locked. Yet trust came hard in Dystyx.
"Tell me what you know," Syrith said instead. "About the masked betrayer."
Roukhal gestured to the dock, where an old barge waited. "Get in." The moment they were aboard, the man shoved off from the shore. "He calls himself Velkyrion," Roukhal began. "But that's a title he stole. He is one of the Seven Bloods—an ancient order who betrayed their own Pantheon long ago."
Syrith frowned. "Why seven?"
"Each took a gem from the Bloodforge during the Sundering. The gems grant power, but curse the bearer—binding them to violence, lies, and endless hunger." Roukhal's voice darkened. "Velkyrion wears the Mask of Seven Bloods: seven rubies forged from traitor's tears. He rules a hidden cult in Dystyx—The Crimson Covenant. Through them, he poisoned your Cup of Ascension."
Syrith's blood ran cold. "He orchestrated my death."
"And yours is only one kill among countless," Roukhal said. "Velkyrion's ambition is to fracture all realms and rebuild them in his image. He's hunted gods and pantheon-kings for eons."
Averith drew in a shaky breath. "Then he's no mere courtier. He's a destroyer."
The river's current picked up, roaring through a narrowing passage. Crystalline fungi glowed brighter, illuminating murals carved into the grotto walls—ancient battles between storm-beasts and fire-demons, and a crowned figure wielding lightning. Syrith's heart throbbed as he recognized the likeness: himself, in ages past.
Roukhal nodded at the murals. "Before you were throneless, you were the Storm Sovereign of Aether'Khal. You defeated countless betrayers—until Velkyrion's betrayal."
Syrith pressed his palm to the mural, feeling an electric pulse. Memories cascaded: his crown shattering, the taste of poisoned wine, the mask lowering before those final words: "Even gods bleed."
He withdrew his hand, eyes burning. "Where is he now?"
Roukhal's golden eye glinted. "Hidden in plain sight. The Covenants' stronghold is beneath the Spire of Silenced Echoes, in the old quarter. To reach it, we must cross the Obsidian Bridge—and its Watchers have orders to kill any Bloodbinder or storm-sparked soul on sight."
Averith's violet fire pulsed in her veins. "Then we go at night."
Syrith clenched his fist around the hilt of his dagger. "Yes. Tonight, we strike at the heart of the Crimson Covenant. And I will face the Mask of Seven Bloods."
Roukhal studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "I will take you to the bridge. But remember—he knows of your return. He will be ready."
As the barge slid into a wider cavern, its far end opening to a subterranean sea of mirrors, Syrith let the river's roar wash over him. The weight of his past and the promise of revenge pressed on his soul. Ahead lay danger, betrayal, and a confrontation that would echo across realms.
But in his chest, the storm-essence stirred, gathering power for the coming storm.
And so began the long road to his destiny—and to the reckoning with the one who stole everything he was.