Electric blue crackled through his veins, power that coursed through this frail vessel unlike anything he’d tasted in so long. He was weak, emaciated next to his prior grandeur.

  Once, Qu’Urom was a prodigal son, a star foretold to bring his entire lineage to new heights and pave the way to an Age of prosperity the likes of which the people had never known. That was before the darkness consumed what potential his homeland had, driving those who were fortunate enough to escape from their dying world. His was far from the only long-dead house.

  It had been so long since he found fulfillment in anything, he hardly remembered what it meant to hold power. The “strength” that coursed through him now was insignificant; any of the Wardens had once been blessed with far more talent before the Strangers and their Rules transformed his people’s final refuge.

  But he would play his part. He was the pinnacle that anyone who sought to claim the Keep must overcome.

  No mountain should be unscalable, no goal forever out of reach. Qu’Urom and his peers, each chosen by the Mountain Tribes to protect a Fulcrum and maintain the dynamic of power set in place by their god, would accept the hatred...accept their sacred duty as gatekeepers for this world’s next stage. He wasn’t sure how things worked in the Fulcrums entrusted to the Sea Tribes, especially if their gatekeepers were anything like the commander left here.

  That bastard was a foul specimen, embodying the arrogance and cruelty of the rebellious Sea Tribes with excellence. Despite the Ages-long feud, systemic bad blood, Qu’Urom didn’t desire the destruction of the enemy faction. He could, doubtless, have limited the Grokar expansion far more than he had, letting the wolverines expand into the mountain itself. Perhaps he should have, maybe it was weakness on his part, but there was a reason things were as they were.

  A balance, an order to this false world.

  The Sea Tribes were the fuel that kept the refuge running. They bred quickly and cast away their young at a whim, supplying the Mountain Tribes’ god with the vital energy to sustain this place. If not for their sacrifice, the miraculous blessing of the Mountain Tribes would have failed long ago. The Sea Tribes knew this, knew that the cycle of reincarnation required sacrifice, but those in power would sacrifice the masses gladly to maintain their position. Despite everything, despite their anathema way of life, Qu’Urom couldn’t hate them. The only thing he felt for them was pity. At the end of the day, they were still his people, twisted as they had all become.

  His feelings for Kewrok, however, were a bit more personal. He was a coward who should never have been let escape the darkness, weak by the old standards and the new.

  Necessity had driven his people to the brink and beyond, but Qu’Urom would never give up hope that they might reclaim their home world, if only someone powerful enough came along. This place was special, a Fulcrum in its own right, and he knew the truth.

  His world was not forever out of reach.

  That was the only reason he’d ever accepted his position: hope that his people might be more than refugees once more. He was glad the challengers had come to his Fulcrum, strange as it was for him to receive a second challenge. He couldn’t speak for the Fulcrums held by the opposition, but he had never heard of another challenge to a Mountain Tribe gatekeeper.

  The Witch of Paths had a hand in all things, even from so great a distance. Power, he had long known, made such things trivial.

  The fate of his people was in the hands of these fledgling mages, those who still had the blessing of potential. Powerful as his own people had been, their path was sullied, flawed. They hadn’t known the cost of taking shortcuts to power, how it fed on their potential. The Strangers, listening to the plight of his people, established the Rules to limit the help their descendants could receive here, making the varied paths unique, and stronger for it.

  Challenge was essential for growth. The Rules tempered that challenge, ensured there was always a chance of survival, but that didn’t mean it was safe. And once limits were unchained, there was no sealing them again. That was why there were gatekeepers in the first place. If a challenger came along who could beat one of them, the wheels of change would again begin to turn.

  If not, they would die, for they were not destined to reach the heights of power.

  And now, a mockery of the power he once possessed flowed through him. For all that the girl before him struggled, she had no idea how long the path before her would be, if she had the strength to walk it. She was talented and determined, but that didn't guarantee she could defeat him, loosening the shackles on his people’s power further.

  If she couldn’t…well, he’d waited a few millennia already. At least he got some fun out of it, a chance to exercise his atrophied mana circuits. The girl had passed the first trial, getting to the Ziggurat’s peak, and the second by surviving this long. The Warlord, as his underlings now called him, knew that, had her group weakened the seal on his power so greatly, he would likely have already lost.

  But nothing was beyond the whims of Fate, outside of the matrix of probability. Now, it was time for the real test to begin.

  This guy was on another level. His weapon drank in the scintillating energy, burning unnaturally bright in the dark realm. His body, enhanced by that same energy, moved with a speed incomparable to before. In a matter of moments, Anilith found herself pushed back…again.

  Above the Warlord’s head, a crown of elements formed, woven of his prismatic affinities. At first, each was distinctly visible, but they were quickly bound tighter and tighter, fused into a violet band so dark it appeared black, but for the very edges. The dark light shone down, illuminating the beast like an unholy halo.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  But that was far from all it seemed to do.

  Orbs of incandescent energy floated above the Warlord’s Darklight Band. One crackled audibly with alarming intensity, while another hummed ominously, reminding Anilith of the strange weapon the creature held. A third orb emitted strange music, following no clear pattern, but surprisingly pleasant nonetheless. The fourth orb she looked at roiled with constant, rolling thunder, flashing brightly at irregular intervals. The final two orbs were harder to distinguish, both glowing with an angry light and giving off incredible heat, even from a distance.

  It wasn’t hard to guess what those were tied to, though.

  Any minute doubt she might have held that these manifestations were just for show was banished when the orbs began to rotate, firing off a spell as each neared Anilith in turn. The attacks were simple, but constant. Alone, they would have been a nuisance, but the Warlord was hardly idle while his construct went to work.

  Already outclassed in martial skill, Anilith had to contend with a constant onslaught of magical bombardment. Fortunately, batting them aside with her sword proved a viable solution, but that still left her dealing with the masterfully woven combos of an enemy she had no business facing.

  “That can’t be all you have,” the goblin taunted. “Show me what you’re really capable of, child!”

  Anilith’s Blade was a blur, shifting forms faster than her pounding heart beat. She shifted forms seamlessly, following the beating pulse of Arian. One moment, she floated, dancing like a leaf on the wind; the next, she held her ground, rooted in place with mountainous strength, only to dash away, feet ignited like falling stars.

  Every minute their battle lasted, she grew more capable, found herself trusting the call of Hope more fully. Coupled with her Weaving, the motions came to her preternaturally, her body moving before she even knew why. Before she knew it, she had become a blank, reflective surface, countering every attack her foe launched.

  But it was never enough to let her go on the offensive. Every time she found herself at an advantage, a fresh surge of energy empowered the creature, boosting it to unmatched levels. A single misstep here meant death, yet the Warlord seemed to have no shortage of fuel left to burn.

  He really had been toying with her before.

  Faced with such an unrelenting foe, outclassed so hopelessly, Anilith realized it reminded her uncannily of her last experience training with the Legacy of the First Mother. Minutes blurred together, time losing all meaning in the face of the trial before her, but she was not the child she’d been only a short time ago. Some battle-hardened part of her psyche kept track of every clash, even removed from time’s embrace, working to engrain the lessons written by her counterpart’s weapon, often on her own flesh and blood.

  That was, perhaps, the most apparent difference; the wounds she received were no illusion, and the pain not one that would fade when the dance was done. The only release was death, and she was far from ready to venture forth.

  Every challenge, every brush with her own mortality, had brought her to this moment. She had come this far, with help from her friends. This was their triumph, no one else’s. If she hit a wall, she would just soar over it. Nothing as basic as her limits would stop her from doing what she needed to do.

  She could never save her people if she died here, and so she refused.

  Slowly, she adapted to the Warlord’s attack patterns. Even the most complicated combos he used seemed too perfect, a flaw that left them susceptible to her unorthodox style. Up close, he’d have the clear advantage, but Anilith didn’t let him close the distance. A seemingly endless variety of long weapons were born from her Blade by necessity; some never seen before, nor to be seen again, and yet perfect in their momentary existence.

  She hardly noticed when her styles began to bleed together under the direction of Arian.

  Spells flew chaotically around the shadowed realm, swatted with the speed of the wind. Every once in a while, the angle was just right to reflect one of the goblin’s spells directly back at him, but that never left any lasting damage.

  Sometime into the fight, she realized she’d blasted sideways, the power of Fire exploding from her feet while drawing upon the strength of Earth, landing a devastating blow against her foe. Shock painted her face, but the Warlord only grinned as his forearm fell free, his plasma blade vanishing, the hilt clattering to the ground.

  “Incredible,” he breathed, his halo fading from above. “The way you adapt…it’s beyond learning. You don’t know what your magic truly is, do you?” He shook his head, ignoring her puzzled look. “No, I think not. If it is as I suspect, I fear to know what you might be capable of; and my theory is not for me to share. There are things you must discover on your own, or they will be forever tainted. Now, finish this! Take my head, and claim your victory.”

  “No.” She stooped to claim his weapon, another blade for her arsenal, if she could make it work. “I never wanted your life.”

  Anilith stepped forward, laying a hand on the defeated as she focused on a link Orion had fastened, one too frail to use more than once across the membrane of dimensions.

  In an instant, the pair fell through the shadowed ground, returning to the storm-blown top of the Ziggurat. The sounds of battle died around them, and countless eyes beheld them. A gruff, shaky voice shattered the moment.

  “Well, about damned time, kid, ain’t it? I was beginnin’ to think the Grokar army would…”

  Even as Orion spoke, not-so-distant sounds of battle reached them, the despicable voice of Kewrok faintly audible.

  “Onward, soldiers, to the pinnacle. Pave the way for your Chieftain in blood!”

  “Like I was sayin’,” the old man said with a grin.

  None of the Elites moved to attack, eyes glued to their disarmed leader, but their squadrons turned to face the incoming threat. Without guidance, they stood no chance at stopping the momentum the Sea Tribes had gained.

  As the first Grokar climbed into sight, Anilith called out, “Don’t waste any more life. The Warlord is defeated; You can stand down.”

  Even suffering from battle-fatigue, Anilith was vaguely aware of the three-pronged spear that arced towards them. Instinctually, she moved to defend her captured foe, only to realize a moment too late that she’d chosen the wrong target.

  Her eyes widened in horror as the trident struck Orion in the gut, the man in no shape to dodge after what looked to be a heroic last stand atop the temple.

  That croaking, hateful voice spoke up once more.

  “And why would I do that? Seems to me my enemies have weakened each other for me. Why waste such a wonderful gift?”