The violet energy receded, withdrawing like a poisonous tide. Magdalyna's crimson force followed suit, and within seconds, the clearing returned to something approaching normal. The pressure lifted, and Morgana gasped for air she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Fine," Lilinathara said, and her tone was light again, almost playful.

But underneath lurked venom and promised violence. "Keep your little project. For now. But know this, old one—I'm watching. And if an opportunity presents itself, I will take it. I will have that boy, one way or another."

"You can try," Magdalyna replied evenly.

Lilinathara laughed, and the sound was like breaking glass mixed with screaming.

"Oh, I will. And when I do, you'll regret not standing aside when you had the chance."

She took a step backward, and shadows began to gather around her.

"Enjoy your guardianship, Magdalyna. I hope it proves worth the price you'll eventually pay for it."

With that, she vanished.

Not through a portal or by walking away—she simply ceased to exist in that space, as if she'd been edited out of reality.

Magdalyna stood alone in the clearing for several long moments, staring at the spot where Lilinathara had been. Her expression was troubled, lips pressed into a thin line.

Then she turned her head, and her gaze swept across the forest. Across the exact section where Morgana and the others were hiding.

Morgana's heart stopped.

Those red eyes seemed to look directly at her, through the undergrowth, through the darkness, seeing everything with perfect clarity. For several seconds that felt like hours, Magdalyna held that gaze.

Then the ancient demoness smiled.

It wasn't cruel or mocking. It was almost... fond. Maternal, even.

"Stay safe, young one," Magdalyna said, her voice carrying clearly despite the distance.

She could see Jaenor in the midst of his people, and she didn't want to take him away. Not right now.

The seven sins have been woken up, and she can't take on all of them. And she had other things to deal with.

She gestured casually, and a barrier of shimmering energy suddenly surrounded their hiding spot. Morgana felt it settle into place—not a cage, but a ward. Protection.

"This will hide you from searching eyes," Magdalyna continued.

"It will last until dawn. Use the time wisely."

Then she too vanished, stepping sideways into shadows that shouldn't have been deep enough to hide anyone, let alone a being of her power.

Silence returned to the forest.

Real silence this time, broken eventually by the tentative chirping of insects returning to their normal activities.

For a long moment, nobody moved. They were too shocked, too terrified, and too overwhelmed by what they'd just witnessed.

Finally, Raelana let out a shaky breath.

"We need to leave. Now. Before anything else happens."

"What about the barrier?" Taeryn asked quietly.

"It'll move with us. I can feel it—it's anchored to the boy, not the location."

Raelana's voice was steadier now, though her hands still trembled slightly.

"For whatever reason, the demoness is helping us. We'd be fools not to use it."

Darian carefully lifted Jaenor again, settling his weight across his shoulders. The unconscious boy didn't stir, oblivious to the cosmic forces that had just clashed over his fate.

They began moving again, faster now despite their exhaustion.

The barrier Magdalyna had created was invisible but palpable—a shell of protection that surrounded them as they traveled.

Behind them, the sounds of battle between Draelusa and Wendelina continued to rage. Explosions lit up the night sky.

The ground trembled with each massive clash of power.

But Morgana's thoughts were elsewhere, replaying the conversation they'd overheard.

Two demon lords—three, counting Draelusa—all interested in Jaenor.

All wanting to claim him, use him, or, in Magdalyna's case, protect him for some unknown purpose.

What had Jaenor become? What would he become?

And more importantly, when he finally woke up, how would they possibly explain any of this?

She looked at his peaceful face, slack with unconsciousness, and felt a profound mixture of fear and protectiveness.

"Whatever happens," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, "we keep him safe, no matter the cost."

Rena squeezed her hand in silent agreement.

And together, they disappeared into the dark forest, leaving behind the burning ruins of Ki'thara and the battles that would shape the future of their world.

***

The North Trenches had always been a place of darkness.

Even in daylight, the deep valleys and ravines that scarred the northern wastes seemed to swallow light itself. Ancient cliffs rose like broken teeth, their surfaces stained black by centuries of exposure to corrupted energies. Nothing grew here except twisted, thorny vegetation that fed on death rather than soil.

It was a frontier between the civilized lands and the demon territories beyond.

A buffer zone that had been fought over, lost, reclaimed, and lost again countless times throughout history.

And now, deep within those trenches, something was stirring.

In a cavern so vast it could have housed a city, torches flickered. Not normal fire—these flames burned purple and green, casting sickly light across stone walls covered in ancient runes.

The air was thick with sulfur and decay, hot despite the frozen wasteland above.

They gathered in thousands.

Demons of every variety filled the cavern floor. Some were humanoid, twisted mockeries of mortal form with extra limbs or faces where faces shouldn't be. Others were purely monstrous—things of fang and claw and hunger, creatures that existed only to destroy and consume.

But the core of this army, its disciplined heart, was the Black Orcs.

They stood eight feet tall on average, with some of the champions reaching nine or even ten. Their skin was the color of volcanic rock, dark grey verging on black, marked with ritual scars that glowed faintly with internal heat. Unlike their smaller, more savage cousins, the Black Orcs were organized. Disciplined. They wore proper armor—blackened steel plates fitted together with brutal efficiency. They carried weapons that were maintained and sharpened rather than crude clubs.

They were not mindless beasts.

They were soldiers.

Their commander stood on a raised platform overlooking the assembled horde. His name was Groa'thak the Render, and he was a legend among his kind. Twelve feet of muscle and fury, covered in armor that bore the marks of a thousand battles. His face was a nightmare of scar tissue and exposed bone, one eye replaced by a gem that burned with hellfire. In his right hand, he held a greatsword longer than a human was tall.

"Brothers!" Grothak's voice boomed across the cavern, echoing off stone walls.

"Sisters! Children of the deep places!"

The horde quieted, thousands of eyes turning toward him.

"For too long, we have been contained. Pushed back. Made to cower in these trenches like beasts afraid of the light."

His sword swept out, pointing toward the cavern's northern exit—toward the mortal lands beyond. "The humans build their walls and hide behind their witches and their warriors. They tell themselves they are safe, that we are a manageable threat."

Growls and snarls of agreement rippled through the assembled demons.

"They forget," Grothak continued, his voice rising, "that we are legion. That for every one of us they kill, three more rise from the depths. They forget that we are patient. That we can wait decades, centuries, for the right moment."

He raised his sword high, and the runes carved into its blade ignited with crimson fire.

"That moment approaches! The realms of men are divided. The Covens' number decreases. The kingdoms bicker among themselves over scraps of territory. Their attention is elsewhere, their forces scattered."

The noise from the horde grew louder—excited, eager and bloodthirsty.

"We have been commanded to prepare! To marshal our strength! When the signal comes, we march! We pour from these trenches like a flood, and we do not stop until we have drowned their cities in blood and ash!"

The roar that answered him shook dust from the ceiling. Demons beat weapons against shields, creating a thunder that would have terrified anyone who heard it.

Groa'thak let them rage for several moments before raising a hand for silence. It took longer this time, the bloodlust already rising, but eventually they quieted enough to hear him.

"But we do not move yet," he said, his tone becoming stern.

"We wait for the word from our masters. We prepare. We train. We ensure that when we finally strike, nothing can stop us."

He gestured to his lieutenants, other Black Orc champions who stood at attention around the platform.

"Continue the drills. Form the legions properly. I want every unit ready to march within an hour's notice. Scouts—continue monitoring the human settlements. I want to know their strength, their positions, and their weak points."

The lieutenants saluted—fists against chests—and moved to carry out his orders.

As the assembled horde began to disperse, returning to their preparations, Groa'thak remained on the platform. His single good eye stared north, toward the lands he would soon invade, and something like anticipation crossed his brutal features.

War was coming.

Real war, not the small skirmishes that had defined the last century.

And he intended to be remembered as the one who finally broke the human resistance.

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