Eryndor knew the fight would not last much longer.
Not because they were losing ground inch by inch—but because numbers always won in the end, and the guild had far too many bodies still standing. Even with Garruk's hammer cracking shields and Lirien's shadows carving through joints and tendons, the press was tightening. A ring of steel, breath, and sweat was closing around them.
And worse—he could feel it.
The scripture beneath his skin pulsed faintly, a warning rather than a promise. His mana pool was already thinned, threads pulled taut from earlier bursts of perception and control. One careless invocation, one indulgent use of his strongest art, and he would be on his knees—drained, shaking, useless.
A burden.
He refused to be that.
Steel flashed past his face. He leaned aside, felt the wind of the blade graze his cheek, and caught the attacker's arm mid-swing. The guildman barely had time to gasp before Eryndor twisted, stepped in close, and hurled him bodily into his own allies. The impact sent three men sprawling, armor clashing, formation breaking for half a heartbeat.
That was all Eryndor needed.
He surged forward through the gap, boots skidding on soot-slick stone, and slammed his back against Garruk's broad frame.
Back to back.
A moment later, shadows snapped like whips to their side as Lirien slid into position, her own back pressing against theirs. Three points. Three directions. A defensive knot forged out of desperation and stubborn refusal to die.
"On a scale of one to catastrophic idiocy," Eryndor murmured with a grinn.
Garruk grunted as his hammer met a shield with bone-jarring force. "If this is one of your plans, I already hate it."
"It's brilliant," Eryndor said lightly.
"That usually means fatal," Lirien shot back, voice tight, suspicious even as her shadows coiled and lashed.
"Only for them," Eryndor replied.
Neither of them answered. They didn't need to.
"Silence means agreement." He exhaled slowly, then lifted his gaze past the melee—to where Varric stood.
The guildmaster hadn't dirtied himself yet. Of course he hadn't. He remained near the rear of the chamber, surrounded by his elite, the relic cradled in his grasp like a prize already claimed.
"Time for a clever escape," Eryndor said.
His smile sharpened, less cocky now—more dangerous. Focused. Calculating. The kind of smile Lirien had learned to distrust
"Lirien," he said between breaths, "how many shadows can you shape at once?"
She parried a thrust, pivoted, and sliced through a wrist with clean efficiency. Blood splattered the stone. "Enough," she said flatly. "Why?"
"Because I'm about to give you a very large distraction."
Garruk smashed a shieldbearer aside, sending the man crashing into a forge cart. "Then spit it out already!"
Eryndor's eyes flicked again to the relic in Varric's hands. The pulse aligned once more.
"Shadows like darkness, right?" he asked.
Lirien's eyes narrowed. "Obviously."
"Good." His grin turned razor-thin. "Because someone's about to kill the lights."
He waited.
Counted footfalls. Timed breath and momentum. Let the pressure tighten just enough that the guild pushed forward without thinking.
Three.
Two.
One.
Eryndor broke from the formation.
He snatched a fallen spear from the ground and hurled it—not at a man, but upward, toward the heavy chain suspending the central forge lamp above the chamber.
The throw was brutal. Precise.
The spear struck with a metallic crack.
THA-CHAK!
The chain snapped.
The lamp swung wildly, scattering sparks in a frantic arc before slamming down into the forge embers below then died.
Darkness crashed over the chamber like a curtain dropped mid-performance.
Shouts erupted. Guildmen cursed, staggered, collided with one another as their formation dissolved. Only faint light remained—the dull glow of mana swirling around Varric and his elite, harsh and exposed against the black.
Perfect, Eryndor thought.
Lirien inhaled sharply.
Her shadows answered.
They surged outward, swelling, stretching, multiplying—coiling around her like wings unfurling. Three phantom silhouettes peeled away from her form, moving independently, darting through the dark with lethal purpose.
"Your plan better work," she murmured.
"You can complain later," Eryndor shot back.
The shadows struck.
Armor joints. Knees. Ankles. Wrists.
Not killing blows—disabling ones. Precision cuts that collapsed lines and forced openings. Garruk moved with them, no longer swinging wildly but striking exactly where Lirien's work left gaps. Hammerfalls landed with dreadful certainty.
"Left side's thinning!" Eryndor called. "Move!"
But Eryndor himself did not press outward.
He maneuvered inward.
Every step he took brought him closer to Varric—but not to attack him. No. He wanted something else.
He wanted desperation.
He wanted anger.
He wanted Varric to overextend.
And as always, arrogance obliged.
"You think darkness will save you, boy?" Varric sneered. His free hand drew his blade, mana coiling around it like molten wire. The glow intensified, cutting through the shadows by sheer force of presence.
Eryndor stepped back—exactly where he needed to be.
Between Varric and a thick iron support pillar, ancient and rust-scarred, holding far more weight than it had any right to.
"Actually," Eryndor said calmly, "I'm counting on you to light the way."
He raised his palms in mock surrender then smirked.
"Come on then," he said softly. "Hit me."
Varric didn't hesitate.
He didn't even question it.
With a roar, he lunged.
Mana flared. Aura ignited. His speed spiked violently as he drove his blade forward, aimed straight for Eryndor's heart.
Eryndor inhaled.
Exhaled.
The scripture beneath his skin screamed.
Mana tore from him in a painful rush as the world slowed—just enough. Time bent, stretched thin like glass under pressure. He stepped aside, twisted his wrist, guided the angle of the thrust by a fraction.
A fraction was all it took.
The blade missed him.
And struck the pillar.
Ancient metal screamed. Dust poured from above in choking clouds as the structure shuddered.
Varric froze.
Bewilderment flickered across his face as he turned.
Positions reversed.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Eryndor whispered.
Then he drove his boot forward.
The kick landed squarely in Varric's chest. The Guildmaster tried to block—too late. The impact carried momentum he hadn't anticipated, strength backed by timing and leverage rather than raw power.
Varric slammed into the pillar.
Blood splattered the stone.
The relic slipped from his grasp and clattered across the ground.
Eryndor gaze flicked to it, but he did not reach for it, not yet. For now, he needed the pillar more.
THOOM.
The pillar gave way.
Rust, stone, and iron collapsed inward, half a ton of ruin crashing down between the party and the remaining guildmen. The chamber jolted. Two soldiers leaped back just in time, rubble obliterating the space where they'd stood.
Silence followed—broken only by groaning metal and distant curses.
Lirien reappeared beside Eryndor, shadows retracting into her cloak.
"You brought the roof down on purpose?"
"Not the whole roof," Eryndor said. "Just enough."
Garruk finished the last enemy with a brutal swing and hurried over. "By the forges, boy—that was suicidal!"
"Effective though," Eryndor replied.
"Reckless," Lirien muttered.
"Also true."
Behind the rubble, Varric howled in fury.
"YOU BASTARDS! YOU'LL DIE FOR THIS!"
Eryndor cupped his hands. "Take a number!"
Garruk pointed toward a narrow service tunnel revealed by the collapse. "There. Old smelter runoff. Twists like hell, but it'll take us out."
Eryndor nodded. "Then we move."
Lirien glanced back once—at the fallen lockbox, at Varric clawing at stone.
"They won't stop," she said calmly.
"I know," Eryndor agreed. "That's why we need daylight before they regroup."
He looked at both of them.
"Ready?"
"Born ready," Garruk said, hefting his hammer.
Lirien drew her shadows close, eyes cool. "Lead the way."
Together, they vanished into the dark.
Behind them, the collapsed forge sealed shut like a closing jaw.