The group moved like ghosts through the flickering shadows of the castle, following Glynlie's lead. It was a rhythmic dance of tension—press against the cold stone, wait for the patrol to pass, then dash to the next pool of darkness. Finally, they slipped into a narrow hallway cramped with storage barrels and the scent of damp grain.
"That way," Glynlie whispered, her voice barely a breath as she pointed toward the heavy wooden casks. "There is a latch behind the barrels. It leads to a derelict servant's passage. Follow it, and it will take you beyond the outer walls."
"Hold on. Wait," Hythesion hissed, planting his feet. "We can't leave yet."
Glynlie's eyes widened in the dark. "What? Why? This is your only window!"
"The King's adviser, Ser Larry," Hythesion replied, his jaw tight. "He has something that belongs to us."
"The Pendant," Maitara added, her voice trembling with a mix of urgency and anger. "It's inside a wooden box. He stole it from us when we were taken."
"Yeah, and we aren't going out without it," Geth muttered, checking the hallway behind them.
Glynlie looked between them, her brow furrowed in confusion. "A pendant? What are you talking about?"
"I'll tell you exactly what they are talking about, Captain!"
A voice, slick with arrogance and booming with projected power, erupted from the gallery above. Ser Larry stood on the stone overlook, peering down at them with a smile that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes. From the shadows of the corridor, a sea of steel appeared as a massive contingent of knight guards flooded the hallway, boxy shields and halberds locking them in.
"At ease, men!" Glynlie commanded, her voice ringing with the authority of a General Captain. "Lower your weapons!"
The knights didn't move. They stood like statues, their breathing heavy and synchronized.
"Hahahaha! They won't listen to you, Glynlie!" Ser Larry taunted, leaning over the railing.
Glynlie stepped forward to confront the nearest guard, but she froze. Under the visors of their helmets, the guards' eyes weren't human—they glowed with a dull, rhythmic crimson light. They were hollow vessels.
"What did you do to them?" Glynlie's voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl.
"Oh, just a little simple magic I picked up," Ser Larry replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I must say, I'm disappointed. Neverwinter's finest General Captain, helping prisoners escape? A traitor to the crown... it's almost too poetic."
"You are the only traitor here, Larry!" Maitara stepped into the light, her eyes defiant. "I know what's under your sleeve. I know you carry the Mark of Gannurim!"
The air in the hallway seemed to turn ice-cold. Glynlie looked at Maitara, her voice a hushed whisper. "The mark of... what?"
Larry's laughter turned jagged. "Hah! A shame to hide it now, I suppose." He pulled back his silk sleeve, revealing a jagged, blackened brand on his forearm that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. "For ten years, I've crawled through the filth of this court to reach this position. I won't let a pack of pathetic mercenaries and a turncoat General ruin my plans!"
"What plans?" Hythesion asked, his hand drifting toward his empty scabbard.
"Silly boy," Larry sneered. "You have no idea what this pendant is capable of, do you? With this power, I will rule Neverwinter, and then the world. I will revive Gannurim, the Chaos Lord, and I shall be his one and only Warlock!"
Larry threw his head back in a manic, evil laugh.
A long quite and irony hung heavy in the air. The companions stole a glance at Maitara—they knew it won't happened because Maitara is the carrier lf Gannurim's power. She caught their eyes and pressed a single finger to her lips, a silent plea to keep quite.
"Well we knew it wouldn't happen." Akmenos whispers as he grins.
Geth chuckles quitely as he heard Akmenos' whisper.
"But first," Larry said, his face hardening as he looked down at the four of them below. "I'll take care of you. Guards! Bring them to the King's Court!"
The mindless knights surged forward. They didn't use the usual rough handling of soldiers; they moved with a frightening, mechanical precision. Thick, heavy Anti-Magic cuffs were snapped onto their wrists, the cold iron instantly dampening the flow of mana in their veins.
As they were dragged toward the throne room, Glynlie looked up at the silhouette of the man she once trusted. "You'll never get away with this, Larry. The King will see..."
"The King sees exactly what I tell him to see," Larry replied, his laughter echoing off the stone walls as they were hauled into the light of the court. "I already have won!"
The walk to the King's Court felt like an eternity. The stone floors were cold against their boots as the mind-controlled guards dragged them through the high, arched corridors of the inner sanctum. By the time the massive oak doors swung open, the air was thick with the scent of expensive incense and the hushed, nervous murmurs of the elite.
The hall was packed. High-ranking nobles in shimmering silks and velvet cloaks lined the perimeter, their faces a mask of judgment and curiosity. At the far end, rising above the sea of finery, sat the throne of Neverwinter. On it sat King Tronan—a man whose presence seemed to command the very air in the room.
The guards forced the four of them down onto the cold marble in the center of the court. The "Anti-Magic" cuffs weighed heavily on their wrists, making even the simplest movement feel like lifting lead. The room was a cacophony of whispers until a herald's voice cracked through the noise like a whip.
"All hail, King Tronan!"
The transition was instant. The room fell into a suffocating silence as every noble and dignitary bowed in perfect unison. Even the light from the stained-glass windows seemed to focus on the King, making him appear like a titan carved from stone.
Ser Larry stepped forward, his chest puffed out, his face twisted into a mask of false humility and triumph. He walked past the kneeling prisoners with a strut that bordered on a dance.
"My lord, King Tronan," Ser Larry began, his voice projected with practiced theatricality so it reached the furthest corners of the hall. "I am deeply honored to present to you these wretches. These are the mercenaries who have been conspiring with the Spectres that causes destruction in St. Bernard Church."
He paused for effect, turning a venomous gaze toward Glynlie.
"And with them, a traitor who once held our highest trust. The General Captain herself, caught red-handed while trying to spirit them away from justice." Ser Larry placed a hand over his heart, bowing deeply toward the throne. "And I, alone, risked my life to intercept them for the glory of the crown!"
The court erupted. The noblemen and high-ranking officials broke into a thunderous round of applause, their cheers echoing off the vaulted ceiling. They shouted Ser Larry's name, praising his "bravery," while the five prisoners remained pinned to the floor, silenced by iron and the weight of a lie.
The cheering reached a fever pitch, a deafening roar of approval for the "heroic" advisor. But the moment King Tronan raised a single, scarred hand, the noise vanished. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the hearths and the labored breathing of the prisoners.
"Let us hear from the accused," King Tronan said, his voice deep and gravelly, carrying the weight of decades of rule. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "I want to hear from you first, Glynlie."
The General Captain took a breath, her voice trembling slightly but retaining its dignity. "My King... I admit, I did try to help them escape—"
"You hear that, my King? She admits it!" Larry's voice cut through the air, sharp and hungry. He turned to the crowd, his arms outstretched as if to catch their outrage. "A confession of treason!"
"But I only did it to help an old friend!" Glynlie shouted over him, her eyes pleading with the man she had served for years. "They are innocent of any ties to the Spectres, my Lord. They are being framed!"
"Lies! Why would we believe the words of a self-confessed traitor?" Larry spat. He stepped up the dais, moving close to the King's side—closer than any advisor should be allowed.
As he leaned in, Larry's hand drifted toward his belt, where the stolen pendant lay hidden in its box. A faint, sickening crimson pulse flickered from beneath the lid. Larry whispered something into the King's ear, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"Your Majesty... think of the example that must be set," Larry murmured. "They must be punished by death."
The nobles caught the cue. "Hang them!" a Duke shouted from the front row. "Traitor!" screamed another. The room became a whirlwind of bloodlust.
Hythesion, pinned to the floor, looked up. He didn't look at Larry; he looked at the King. He saw it then—a thin, jagged veil of red shimmering over Tronan's pupils. The King's face, usually so full of character and iron will, had become a slack, empty mask.
The King spoke, but the voice felt hollow, like an echo in a tomb. "Captain Glynlie... I expected greatness from you. But you have betrayed my crown. You have betrayed me." He paused, his head tilting slightly as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. "You will be punished by death."
"But your Majesty—" Glynlie's voice broke, a look of pure, heartbroken hopelessness crossing her face.
"Along with the others," the King continued, his gaze drifting aimlessly over Hythesion and his companions. "They must die for the sake of the crown."
Larry stepped back, a small, victorious smirk playing on his lips as he watched the woman who had once been his greatest obstacle fall into despair. The King of Neverwinter was no longer a man—he was a puppet, and Larry held the strings.
The guards moved in, their iron-plated grip bruising as they hauled the four of them toward the exit. The court had become a wall of sound—nobles jeering, the rhythmic chanting of "Death!" vibrating through the stone floor, and the heavy clank of boots. Larry stood on the dais, his face twisted into a smug mask of triumph, convinced he had stripped them of every last defense.
Hidden beneath Hythesion's sleeve, pressed tight against his skin, was the Anubis Bracelet. He had lifted it from Larry's own wrist during their earlier.
Hythesion felt the cuffs numbing his arms, but beneath the metal, the bracelet pulsed against his pulse point like a steady, dark heartbeat. It was a cold, vibrating hum that told him the power was ready.
With a sudden, violent heave of his shoulders, Hythesion didn't just struggle—he stood. He forced his body upright, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the marble floor.
"Ellumenari Evantus!"
The words didn't come from his throat; they felt like they were torn out of the air itself.
A massive, blinding sphere of pure white radiance erupted from him. It wasn't just light; it was a physical shockwave. The guards holding his arms were blasted backward as if hit by a battering ram, their armor clattering uselessly against the stone pillars. The audience screamed in a sudden, collective panic, hundreds of nobles clutching their faces and shielding their eyes as the solar flare seared their vision.
As the brilliance finally faded into swirling dust and stinging eyes, a terrifying, heavy silence crashed down upon the King's Court. The nobles were doubled over, blinking back tears of pain, the room filled with the sound of frantic, shallow breathing. The mind-controlled guards lay scattered in heaps, groaning as they tried to find their footing.
Only King Tronan remained unmoved on his throne, his hollow, blood-red eyes staring blankly through the haze, untouched by the light but clearly vacant.
In the center of the hall, Hythesion stood alone. His breathing was heavy, his chest heaving with the effort. He didn't look at the cowering nobles or the broken guards. He fixed his gaze directly on the dais.
Every eye that could still see was now locked on him.