The morning sun had barely crested the stained-glass windows of the throne room when the heavy doors creaked open.
Boots echoed in grim rhythm as Duma the Light Bringer approached the throne. His white-gold armor bore streaks of ash and forest soot, his radiant cloak torn near the hem. Yet his face held the same unshakable calm it always had—the face of a man who stood unbending at the edge of chaos.
Mathew watched from his throne, leaning forward, his fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes were sharp, tired, and filled with coiled frustration.
"You're late," the king said flatly.
Duma bowed once. "There were… complications, Your Majesty."
"Speak."
The paladin took a slow breath. "We tracked them through the Forbidden Forest. Our scouts marked their path in blood—they left behind signs of battle, powerful traces of magic. And then, we found the bodies of our own men—two, perhaps three of the spies you had sent ahead. They had been silenced with precision. No tracks leading away, no signs of a struggle… just death left to rot in the underbrush."
Mathew's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Duma continued, his voice low but unwavering. "We formed a perimeter. Quietly, strategically. The mages prepared silence wards, and we tightened our circle. We had them. We were sure."
"And yet," Mathew snapped, "they are not here."
"No, Your Majesty," Duma replied. "Because the moment we stepped in to capture them… they vanished."
A long silence fell.
"Vanished?" Mathew echoed. "Speak clearly, paladin. What trick is this?"
Duma met his gaze. "Ancient magic. A teleportation ritual, one rarely used and even more rarely understood. The runes were scorched into the forest floor, surrounded by melted stone and frozen air. All four of them disappeared in a burst of wild energy. There were no remains, no trace, not even a direction."
Mathew stood from his throne slowly, the hem of his royal cloak brushing the floor like a slow wave of fury.
"Our best mages are still trying to read the fading residue," Duma said. "They believe the spell is older than our current age. It doesn't match any of our schools. But… there is one theory."
Mathew turned, eyes narrowing.
"They think the group may have been sent to the ruins of the Northern Wastes," Duma said, "to one of the lost cities beneath the frost. If so, we cannot follow—not immediately. The magic that shields those places is still strong. Even I could not sense them after the spell."
He paused, then added gravely, "But something else changed, Your Majesty. Since they vanished… I no longer feel the power I once sensed in the forest."
Mathew furrowed his brow. "You said before… it was growing."
"Yes. Like a storm building in silence. Now—it's gone."
"Gone?"
Duma nodded. "Completely. It's as if the source was ripped from this world and cast elsewhere. I do not know what it means. But I fear… it will return stronger."
The room grew cold.
Mathew turned his back to him, walking slowly toward the great stained-glass mural of the kingdom. "Leave me," he said, barely more than a whisper.
Duma bowed, deeply, with a sorrowful glance. Then he turned and exited, his footsteps hollow in the vast silence.
The throne room doors closed with a deep boom.
Mathew stood alone. The day filtered in gold and red through the stained glass, but none of it touched him.
He stood, breathing heavily, his fists clenching at his sides. A storm of rage boiled behind his eyes, and when he could no longer contain it, he roared to the ceiling:
"Aura!"
His voice shook the stone.
"You said I would fail—where are you now?!"
Silence.
Then, somewhere in the shadows, barely audible… a soft, amused chuckle.