Flint sat against the cold stone wall, knees pulled up to his chest, staring at the dimly glowing runes of the ritual circle before him. Dust and debris coated his once-pristine clothes, and the metallic scent of dried blood still clung to the air. His hands trembled in his lap, not from fear, but from the sheer exhaustion of the past hours.
They're breaking in.
The sound of furious pounding echoed from beyond the sealed entrance. Muffled voices carried through the cracks in the stone, full of anger and betrayal.
"Flint! Open this door!"
"You can't just lock yourself in there forever!"
"We trusted you, damn it!"
The accusations drummed against his skull, dull and ceaseless. Flint closed his eyes and pressed his palms over his ears. The irony wasn't lost on him—he'd once been the one on the outside, overseeing everything in Hallow's Rest with an iron grip. Now, he was the outcast.
He'd never imagined it ending like this.
All his plans, all his careful work to maintain order, to control what needed controlling—it was all for nothing. Char, Mira, and that fool Merrick had torn through his carefully structured world like a wildfire, leaving him alone in the ashes. His assistants—his people—were dead. The town had turned against him. His authority was gone.
And now they were going to break down the door and drag him into whatever twisted justice they thought he deserved. He didn't want to admit it, but he was bloody terrified. His whole boys shook like he was freezing to death and had hypothermia.
Flint took a slow breath, staring at the ritual circle. The runes pulsed softly, ancient and powerful, promising an escape if he dared take it.
They ruined everything… but they also left the path open.
The pounding grew more frantic.
There was no time left.
Flint lurched forward, planting his hands on the runes and muttering the words he'd memorized from his years of studying the circle in secret. The symbols flared bright, and the cavern trembled in response.
A distant cracking noise reached his ears. Then another.
No.
It wasn't just the circle activating. The cavern itself was shifting.
A deafening crack rang out, followed by the sound of stone splitting, of earth groaning under its own weight. Dust rained from the ceiling as large chunks of rock splintered off.
Flint's eyes widened.
The cavern was collapsing.
The others outside must have noticed too, because the pounding on the door stopped, replaced by distant shouts of panic.
Flint didn't hesitate.
He threw himself into the ritual circle just as the world caved in around him.
The flash of light engulfed him, and it felt like he was floating through the sky, as weightless as a feather. For the first time since before that brag Char and that monster Benjamin had entered his town, Flint almost felt positively peaceful. If only he could stay in that state for the rest of eternity…Then—
The first thing Flint noticed when he reappeared was the cold.
He lay sprawled on rough, uneven earth, the sharp scent of damp stone filling his nose. The air was thinner here, crisp with altitude.
Slowly, he pushed himself onto his elbows, blinking against the dying light of sunset. The sky stretched vast and deep above him, painted in swirls of gold and crimson. Below, the land rolled into valleys and hills, shadowed by towering mountain peaks. And nestled within the stone folds of the valley—
A settlement.
Flint narrowed his eyes, taking in the clustered stone and wood structures, the faint flickering of torchlight. Even from here, he could see the figures of people moving through the streets, dressed in furs and armor, their pale blue skin and white hair unmistakable.
The Valkari.
So, this was where the ritual circle had taken them.
His lips twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace.
The same path as Char, Mira, and Merrick.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the settlement, thoughts buzzing in his mind.
He had nothing left. No followers, no town, no power.
But that didn't mean he had no future.
Power could be regained. Control could be reestablished.
He just needed the right allies.
And as fate would have it, he spotted one.
A lone figure, making his way along the outskirts of the settlement, half-shrouded in the twilight haze. He carried himself with the stiff, wary posture of a warrior, shoulders squared, head high. The way others had described him while passing through back in Hallow's Rest came to mind.
Lucien Wolfsbane.
Flint watched as the man strode further away from the village, unaware of the eyes tracking his movements. His white hair was long and flowing, like a white waterfall. Flint couldn't deny the objective prettiness of the man, in both facial features—ignoring the scowl on his face currently — and in the way he held himself.
Slowly, carefully, Flint rose to his feet. He brushed dust from his tattered coat, rolled his shoulders, and took a steadying breath. Then, without hesitation, he slid down the hillside, making his way toward Lucien, a slow smirk curling onto his lips.
It was time to start again.
*
Lucien's blade was at Flint's throat before he could even speak.
The Valkari's reflexes were fast—almost too fast for a human to track. Flint had barely taken two steps before the steel of Lucien's sword gleamed under the dim light of dusk, pressed firmly against the hollow of his throat.
"Who are you?" Lucien's voice was a low growl, his golden eyes narrowed with suspicion. "And why in the Void are you sneaking around like a rat?"
Flint held up his hands in surrender, his expression shifting smoothly into one of carefully measured calm. "Now, now," he said, his tone light, as if he didn't have a blade inches from his life. "Let's not start off on the wrong foot, shall we?"
Lucien's grip on the hilt tightened. He did not lower the sword.
Flint studied the younger man's face in the fading light. Up close, Lucien was just as formidable as the whispers about him had claimed—sharply built, hardened by experience, his eyes cold with battle-worn resentment. This one doesn't trust easily.
Good.
Distrust was something Flint knew how to use.
"I don't know who you are," Lucien muttered. "And I don't like strangers creeping around our territory. If you don't want your head rolling down this hill, you'll start talking."
Flint exhaled slowly. "Fine. You want honesty?" He tilted his chin just enough to avoid pressing further into the blade. "My name is Flint. I was the Administrator of Hallow's Rest. Was being the key word. Thanks to Char, I've lost everything."
Lucien's expression didn't change, but his grip faltered—just slightly.
Ah.
So that was a sore spot.
Flint allowed himself the smallest smirk. "I see that name isn't exactly your favorite either."
Lucien scoffed, pulling his sword back—but only just. He still held it close, like a wolf deciding whether to tear out its prey's throat. "That bastard has no right to be here," he muttered. "Him and those other outsiders. My father is a fool for even letting them breathe our air."
Flint hummed in agreement, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat. "And yet, here we are," he said. "Char is living comfortably in your settlement, free to do as he pleases. Meanwhile, you—one of your father's strongest warriors—are left to grit your teeth and tolerate it." He tilted his head, letting his words sink in. "That must be frustrating."
Lucien scowled. "What are you getting at?"
Flint leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I don't want him here any more than you do," he murmured. "But unlike you, I have a plan."
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "What kind of plan?"
Flint spread his hands. "A simple one," he said smoothly. "I request an audience with your father—the great Rhun Wolfsbane—in secret. No public declarations, no unnecessary questions." He let the words settle before adding, "I offer him a solution to his problem. I get rid of Char and his little friends for good."
Lucien didn't speak right away. His eyes flickered with suspicion, but also something else. Interest.
Flint kept his stance relaxed, but his mind raced.
He had no real intention of serving Rhun Wolfsbane—no, his goals were much bigger than that. But if he could manipulate his way into an alliance, even a temporary one, he could reestablish his influence.
Lucien folded his arms, still skeptical. "And why should I believe a word you say?"
Flint smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Because I know Char," he said, voice cool. "I know how he thinks. I know his weaknesses. And I know exactly how to bring him down."
Lucien stared at him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he lowered his sword.
"You have one chance," he muttered. "One. If I take you to my father and he doesn't like what you have to say, I will be the one to cut you down."
Flint gave him a pleasant smile. "A reasonable deal."
Lucien turned, motioning for him to follow.
As Flint stepped in line beside him, his mind whirred with new possibilities.
This is only the beginning.