Magla the Great rose like a fortress of gold and steel on the coast of the Empire. Its walls twenty meters high, its towers armed with ballistae. At the heart of the city, in an underground vault, Darius the Great stood guard — two and a half meters of muscle and durandium steel, the last survivor of an ancient caste of warriors.

The warriors were looking for archives. For answers. Silas showed the seal of the Guild of Guilds. Darius let them in.

In the circular hall of the archives, Silas found a dusty grimoire bound in black leather. He read aloud.

— “The Tessarians of Darkness. A secret cult. Their goal: to manipulate the events of Terra to weaken the kingdoms and allow the shadows to reign. The Tessarians orchestrated the fall of Rastacan. The witch who cursed him was possessed by a Tessarian demon. The prince was not tyrannical — it was a lie spread after his transformation.”

— Rastacan was innocent, Kael murmured.

— No, Silas corrected. He was innocent at first. But three centuries of curse changed him. Shabakan slowly consumed his soul. Now, Rastacan and the accursed serpent are one.

Suddenly, an alarm rang out. Tessarian cultists — black robes, masks of black crystal — flooded the corridors with absorbers, spectral creatures that devoured magic. Elyndra's spells died out. Draven's specters dissolved.

— Fall back! Silas ordered. We cannot defeat them here!

Darius covered their escape, slaughtering cultist after cultist.

— Go! he roared. I will hold them! My oath is to protect Magla. I will not abandon her. Now GO!

The warriors fled into the streets. Behind them, the roar of Darius, the clash of steel. Then silence.