Lamphrey's memory shifted violently from the triumphant cries of Casimer and the Greycloaks to a scene of chaos—blinding white light in a desert, swirling sand turning to molten glass from the intensity of supernatural conflict. Ethan stood—Lamphrey stood—on a ridge of blackened stone. Below, the final clash between Gelsaadra and the Lightborn Casimer raged, raw fury and relentless brilliance colliding.

Gelsaadra's many heads thrashed, spitting venom, tearing foes in two. Her spear impaled a row of human knights, her sword hewed down others by the dozen. Each time an arrow or a sword pierced her, she shed a scaly layer and emergedanew, eyes gleaming with insane joy. And yet… she wasn't alone in this twisted immortality. The Lightborn surgedaround her, their bodies radiating a holy luminescence. Wounds closed in seconds. Their bones knit together in pulses of starlight. They were no ordinary men.

Ethan saw Casimer stride forward. His eyes blazed with the same color as Krea's stolen blood. He met Gelsaadra blow for blow, unflinching despite her monstrous strength. Their clashes echoed with the shriek of metal, producing shockwaves that flattened entire dunes. In the distance, Ethan saw Tialax cowering, uncertain whether to flee or help their goddess.

Then it happened: the Lightborn managed to plunge a glowing blade through one of Gelsaadra's torsos. She shrieked, all seven heads snapping at him. He staggered back, but before she could regroup, he twisted the blade, releasing a burst of searing radiance that ripped through her scaled flesh. Gelsaadra roared, thrashed, collapsed to one knee. Yet she peeled off another layer of scales, stepping forward anew—back to full strength.

It repeated. Again. And again. Each time the Lightborn thrust his weapon through her hide, she died. Each time, she discarded a layer, reemerging. The desert became a graveyard of shed skins, each still sizzling with leftover energy. The very sands around them bubbled and liquefied from the friction of magic and fury.

But even the unstoppable could be worn down. Her roars became ragged, her regeneration slower. The Lightborn's power seemed inexhaustible, fueled by that stolen angelic essence. At last, he lunged, burying his blade in what must have been Gelsaadra's heart—whatever organ housed her monstrous lifeforce.

She screeched, her voice tinged with a thousand agonies. And, being unable to help it, Ethan felt pity for her, just as Lamphrey had. She was an Archon—like Karfangg, like him. She had once been a being with some kind of hope or purpose, twisted into a creature of war by ambition or design. Now, the Lightborn forcibly tore her asunder in a final burst of glimmering luminescence that blinded Ethan's borrowed vision.

And Ethan saw in her eyes the terrible truth: in that moment, she'd given up. She'd seen that all her struggles were for…nothing. Nothing at all.

And she closed her eyes and let the blade of the Lightborn take her.

When the burning light faded, Gelsaadra was gone—reduced to particles of black dust that swirled in the superheated wind, scattering across a desert now fused into a glistening sheet of glass. The Lightborn stood in the center, shoulders heaving with exhaustion, blade still glowing. All around him, the hybrid armies scattered in panic or lay dead in twisted heaps. Tialax knelt in the distance, numb with disbelief.

He killed her, Ethan thought. Over and over until she just…wanted the pain to stop…

Within her memory, Lamphrey trembled, staring at the cataclysmic result. She, too, was uncomprehending, reeling from how swiftly the unstoppable had been stopped. The final impression was one of grief, despair, and a pervasive sense that the world would never again find a semblance of gentle order. It would always be a stage for new gods, new devils, new wars—and new men eager to harness stolen power.

That thought, that suffocating feeling of futility, pulled Ethan from the scene.

I can guess where we're going next…

In the dream world that faded and reappeared with blinding flashes of lucidity, Lamphrey sighed.

To the next stage of the dance, Lamphrey said. The dance of Lightborn and Archon that never truly ends…

A darkness more pervasive than anything Ethan had ever experienced filled him next.

Then came fire – brazen, powerful, and all-consuming. A fire that engulfed all of Argwyll.

He saw Hybrids being burned, tortured, and mutilated by the Greycloaks as they ranged across the world over the next century, recruiting the children of random villages to their cause and slaughtering any Hybrids that attempted to resist them.

Many of the creatures were put to work building the castles and forts that now dotted Argwyll. The human settlements began to grow and spread across the continent like a virus. These settlements prospered with a common enemy, and slowly they began to form their own national identities. Just like the in time of Archon Karfangg, the land was torn in two: Westerweald and Eastmarch, two Empires that maintained a steady peace under the mantle of their leaders.

In Westerweald, a line of Kings ruled, beginning with a man who was a personal friend to the Greycloaks: King Lysandus I.

In Eastmarch, a cabal of religious leaders reigned in an unofficial capacity over the realm. Ethan saw at least three of them, each wearing pointed caps similar to a sect of Bishops.

Although he could swear, in the world of the dream, that the most senior of their number could see him right now…his eyes seemed hollowed out, wrinkled beyond all reason. His skin looked more like it had been grafted onto his face in a façade of humanity…

He saw that these Kings and Bishops each maintained strict control over the world through their respective stations. The Kings of Westerweald initiated pogroms and pillages of Hybrids throughout their realm, while the Bishops of Eastmarch prescribed laws and regulations that prohibited humans from interacting with Hybrids. Inter-species marriage was banned. Hybrids were blocked from entering the borders of either nation. Any shopkeepers found aiding nonhumans were prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. And that meant Greycloak involvement.

Ethan could also see tensions between the factions – the Kings, Bishops, and Greycloaks were locked in disputes over territory, leadership style, and the political influence each faction wielded. At one time, King Lysandus II had even declared the Greycloaks enemies of the state.

Only a common enemy keeps mankind joined, Lamphrey's voice told him. The next Archon knew this, and took advantage of that fact.

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Once again, the vision shifted, and Ethan saw a flickering black flame emerge from far beneath the world. Tucked away underground, this flame remained for years, until finally it began to take shape.

For many years we had waited in the dark corners of the world, Lamphrey explained. We – the original Sisters of Karfangg – were barely clinging to life. The surface was no longer a welcome. The sun – no longer warm to us. Instead, we ran back to our caves, and prayed for another chance. Another time…

And then Moratavious came, Ethan finished.

He was born from the black flame at the heart of the earth, they said. He had the vague silhouette of a man wrapped in a swirling cloak of shadows. Beneath the hood, Ethan sensed eyes that gleamed with intellect, yet displayed no malice. More wraith than mortal, the creature exuded a calm presence that soothed rather than threatened. Like a black torch in the deep, the being's aura quietly beckoned the hybrids toward him, promising refuge from the cruelties above.

In one graceful motion, Moratavious extended his hands—slender, half-translucent—and ushered the hybrids closer. The Tialax among them bore marks of old wounds. Some wore bandages; others bore scars that spoke of merciless hunts by the Greycloaks. The battered survivors of repeated purges and pogroms had nowhere else to turn.

Moratavious moved with a softness Ethan had never seen in an Archon's memory. He did not roar or issue commands.Instead, he stooped low, gesturing for the wounded to come forward. Arcane symbols flared across the walls, lit by a subtle magic that pulsed in time with the hush of his words. Ethan couldn't fully understand the incantation, but he felt the soothing power radiating from it. Hybrids and Tialax braced themselves, then relaxed as the invisible weave of spells mended their pain. Some bowed in gratitude, tears slipping down scales and fur alike.

"We cannot hope to overcome them…yet," Moratavious spoke, his voice like a distant echo. "Strength requires time. Time to learn, time to grow."

He swept an arm outward, and the shadows themselves came alive. Tendrils of darkness burrowed into the cavern's edges, opening new passages and widening existing corridors. The trembling walls smoothed beneath the force of his will, forming hidden tunnels that snaked deeper underground. The watching hybrids exchanged murmurs of astonishment and relief. They had endured so many hunts beneath the open skies; now, they saw before them an entire subterranean realm blossoming into possibility.

"Below the ground," Moratavious continued, "we may flourish. We can gather knowledge, refine our arts, and grow strong in secret. Your children will know more than you did. Their children will know more still. Patience is our shield."

And so he guided them—not like a conqueror, but like a teacher. Ethan felt the passage of years as the memory advanced, skipping from one moment to the next. He glimpsed the forging of small underground halls, where Tialax learned rudimentary magic from Moratavious's meticulously scribed tomes. He saw groups of hybrid mages practicing illusions, layering cloaks of darkness over their ragged dwellings on the surface. With each new spell, they faded from the prying eyes of humans above. Farmers and travelers passed by, none suspecting entire settlements lay invisible in the folds of twilight magic just beyond the torchlight.

In these fleeting scenes, Moratavious rarely raised his voice. Instead, he offered guidance in careful gestures, coaxing latent power from each student. Sometimes, Ethan observed him huddled in a massive library of carved stone, patiently turning pages of ancient grimoires. Those books might have come from lost temples or stolen caches of the Greycloaks, smuggled into the deep for safekeeping. All knowledge is worth preserving, Moratavious would murmur to Lamphrey in passing, his luminous eyes scanning text after text with insatiable curiosity.

Then came the day—a pivotal memory—when he gathered his followers in a sprawling underground cathedral he named Sanctum. It was a breathtaking space: vaulted ceilings carved from basalt, polished floors inlaid with lines of glowing runes. At its center stood the Throne of Sanctum, a construct of dark crystal and swirling shadows. Ethan felt an unearthly hum emanate from it, as if time and space bent to this seat of power.

"This throne," Moratavious said, voice echoing in the hush, "will shield us from the Archon's Bounty. It shall hide us from the Lightborn and their watchers. In its presence, you are neither visible to those who would hunt you nor bound by the condemnation that Archons so often endure."

He sank onto the throne, letting his form merge with the black crystal. Magic pulsed outward—a wave of concealing energy that Ethan felt in his very bones. It was like stepping into a new dimension entirely. He realized that, in this moment, Moratavious had severed the tenuous thread that connected Archons to the searching eyes of Kaedmon's angels. Their bounty, that relentless call to hunt and destroy new Archons, would fall silent within these halls.

A hush of awe passed among the hybrids. Many wept with relief; some laughed with joy, tails swishing and claws clicking on the stone. For the first time since Karfangg's era, they had a genuine sense of home. And the memory of Gelsaadra's brutal war receded, replaced by cautious hope.

But as Lamphrey had warned, it was Moratavious's gentleness that became his undoing.

Ethan saw the shift in the memory as if the very air grew cold. A vision—Moratavious's vision—flashed in the wraith's pale eyes. He saw Hybrids in Eastmarch's underground tunnels engulfed in flame, their agonized screams echoing through choking smoke. Greycloaks, guided by some new spark of righteous fervor, had breached secret warrens. They burned entire chambers, leaving no survivors. The scene was so vivid that Moratavious clutched his chest, staggering to his feet amid the gasps of his disciples.

"Master!" Lamphrey's voice, urgent, rang through the cavern. "It's too dangerous. Let us gather ourselves—plan a rescue. Do not go alone!"

But Moratavious shook his head, regret written into his glowing, sorrowful gaze. "If I delay, they will all perish. My illusions may shield me from the Greycloaks, at least long enough to save them."

His followers insisted on accompanying him, but he raised a shadowy hand in quiet command. "Stay and protect Sanctum. If I fail…let the next incarnation carry the torch. May they bring you all into the light of dawn."

Against the pleas of Lamphrey and others, Moratavious vanished into a swirl of darkness. The memory lurched, and Ethan found himself within the caverns of Eastmarch, half-collapsed under the weight of swirling smoke. Greycloaks with glowing swords prowled the corridors. Blood and ash coated the walls. Moratavious materialized near a group of huddled Tialax survivors. At his gesture, tendrils of shadow coiled around them, spiriting them away through hidden passages. For a moment, it seemed his rescue would succeed—his illusions concealed them from mortal sight.

But there, standing in the heart of the conflagration, was Androx, the newly anointed Lightborn. His radiance cut through Moratavious's cloaking spells like a knife through silk. The wraith staggered under the sudden blaze of holy power. A single slash of Androx's blade severed a portion of shadow from Moratavious's form, eliciting a tortured groan. Yet Moratavious persisted, conjuring swirling black wards to cover the fleeing hybrids behind him.

"Your illusions are undone," Androx pronounced, voice fierce yet eerily tranquil, reminiscent of the angels that had slain Karfangg. "The dark gods are not welcome in Kaedmon's domain."

Ethan felt Moratavious's sorrow. The Archon gazed at the wounded Tialax behind him, ensuring they still had time to escape. He did not retaliate; he merely raised one hand, conjuring a final protective barrier that guided the last survivors deeper into the tunnels. And then he let Androx's blade descend.

A lance of brilliance tore through Moratavious's center. His shadowy form convulsed, unraveling as though scattered by a gale. Ethan's heart clenched in sympathy, recalling how Gelsaadra had faced her end—futile, solitary. In the flickering half-light, Moratavious's final gaze was not one of rage or regret; it was the calm acceptance of a being who had placed all hope in his people's future. In a burst of pale shadows, he was gone.

The memory shuddered, fading like dying embers. Ethan's chest tightened with grief. He knew these events were centuries past, yet the pain felt raw—immediate. He was still inside Lamphrey's recollections, witnessing the heartbreak she had carried for so long.

Gradually, the dreamworld's darkness receded, leaving him face to face with the Tialax elder. Her sorrow seemed carved into every scale, etched into her eyes with living regret. A tremor ran through her outstretched arm, but her gaze held steady.

"Ethan," she murmured, "the story is not yet done. There is…one more thing you must see."

She reached for him, her clawed fingers trembling, and Ethan felt the tug of that final memory pulling him deeper into the void.

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