The safe room was dead silent.

  The roaring of the storm outside, the groaning of the mountain, and the panicked whispers of the servants—all of it seemed to vanish, sucked into the smooth, perfectly round crater in the stone floor.

  Cecilia Ashborn knelt at the edge of the missing stone, her hands hovered over the empty space, trembling violently. She wasn’t screaming anymore; the shock had stolen her voice, leaving only dry, ragged gasps.

  “Oliver...” she whispered, her fingers grazing the cold stone where her son had stood just moments ago. “Bring him back. Please, bring him back.”

  Roderick dropped to his knees beside his wife. The hardened Lord of the North, the veteran of a dozen wars, looked utterly broken. He wrapped his arms around Cecilia, pulling her against his chest as she finally broke down into uncontrollable sobs.

  The viscount stared at the crater; his jaw was clenched so tight his teeth threatened to crack.

  I told him to go to the hall. I told him he would be safe here. Roderick thought, a suffocating wave of guilt crashing over him. I couldn't protect my son.

  A few feet away, Elara sat on the floor, her legs tucked beneath her. She hadn’t moved since she hit the ground.

  She stared at her own hands; she could still feel the phantom impact of his shoulder slamming into her chest. In her eyes, he was so weak that he needed his cane just to walk. Yet, in that split second, when space twisted and the void opened its jaws, he hadn’t hesitated.

  He didn’t run or scream; he threw himself into the abyss so she wouldn’t have to.

  “Why?” Elara muttered, her voice trembling. “I called you a cripple. I insulted your family. Why have you saved me?"

  Viscountess Sylvia stepped forward, her face pale, and placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. For once, she had nothing to say; she simply pulled Elara into a tight embrace, realizing how close she had come to losing her own child.

  CLANG.

  The heavy iron doors of the safe room groaned open.

  Old Marcus strode in. His armor was scorched, and a thin line of blood trickled from his nose, but the amber fire in his eyes was still burning.

  The moment he stepped into the room, he saw the Crater and Roderick holding his weeping wife.

  Marcus stopped. He didn’t need to ask what happened, as he immediately recognized the smooth, polished cut of a spatial fracture.

  “Marcus,” Roderick said, his voice raw and hollow as he looked up. “He’s gone. The space... it took him.”

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  Marcus walked towards the edge of the crater. He knelt down, removing his gauntlet, and placed his bare hand on the stone. He closed his eyes, extending his mana senses into the residual energy.

  The room waited in agonizing silence.

  “The fracture was unstable,” Marcus said finally, opening his eyes. “It was a localized displacement. It didn’t send him to the Void permanently; it must have spat him out somewhere within the territory’s mana field."

  Cecilia’s head snapped up, a desperate light igniting in her tear-filled eyes. “He is alive? You are saying he is still out there?”

  “I am only saying that finding him is still possible,” Marcus corrected gently, unable to lie to her, “But Cecilia... he has no mana core. And the storm outside is lethal; still, let’s hope for the best.”

  “Marcus, how much time is estimated before the storm begins to quiet down?” Roderick said suddenly.

  “I would say around two hours, my lord," Marcus replied.

  Roderick stood up, gently helping Cecilia to her feet and handing her to Sylvia. The Lord of Ashborn turned toward the reinforced windows.

  It was true. Although the violent, neon purple lightning had stopped splashing against the Golden Dome, and the grinding hum of the Great Tide was fading into a low, distant rumble. The sky was still unnaturally dark, and the crushing atmospheric pressure was enormous.

  “The Rampage is passing,” Roderick said, his voice hardening. The grief in his eyes was instantly replaced by a fierce, burning resolve.

  “Marcus,” he commanded. “Shrink the dome area to only cover the safe rooms, then gather every guard who can still stand and arm them with firestone torches.

  “Roderick, the residual mana outside is still mutating the wildlife,” Marcus warned. “The Deep Woods will be swarming with Void Beasts.”

  “My son is in the dark!” Roderick roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “He is crippled, unarmed, and he is alone! I will not wait until the sun to bring me his bones. If I have to burn the Deep Woods to the ground to find him, I will.”

  Marcus looked at him. He saw the fire. He saw the desperate father.

  It stirred a deeply buried memory in the mage’s heart. A memory of a burning carriage, a wife, and a daughter he couldn't save.

  Marcus stood up and slammed his fist against his chest plate in a crisp military salute. “Then we burn the woods, my lord."

  Roderick marched toward the doors, giving orders to the guards. The safe room erupted into a flurry of activity as men grabbed their weapons and prepared to march into the nightmare outside.

  Before Marcus followed them, he paused.

  He closed his eyes and focused on the intricate web of the bloodline resonance. For weeks, Oliver’s signal had been a dying ember—faint, barely there, clouded by poison.

  But now...

  Marcus frowned.

  Far to the north, deep within the heart of the rocky valleys, he felt a spark. It wasn’t the weak pulse of a dying boy; it was sharp. It felt like a newborn star trying to ignite in the darkness.

  And strangely, right next to it, he felt a second pulse that felt impossibly, achingly familiar.

  No, Marcus thought, his breath catching in his throat. That’s impossible.

  “Marcus!” Roderick shouted from the hallway. “Are you coming?”

  Marcus opened his eyes, the amber flames flaring brighter than they had in a decade.

  “I have a reading,” Marcus said, breaking into a run. “North, toward the rock valleys. And Roderick... we need to hurry.”

  (To be continued...)