His white scales creak against each other as his head slowly lowers toward me, like a wispy cloud descending from the heavens. His gigantic eye settles before my face—a pearly sphere that stares at me unblinking. For a fraction of a second, I wonder if it’s wise to summon him like this, so soon after his release. But I shove that doubt into a dark corner of my mind, not allowing it to surface. There is no other way if I want to know the truth.

‘Kuraokami’, I say without flinching.

The alabaster wisps of his mane drift on a breeze that isn’t there, and his scaly skin gleams like enamel. He coils, twists, and glides fluidly, as silently as a sheet of fog. But I know full well that an unspeakable fury rumbles within him.

‘Who dares utter my name so brazenly? Foolish human who does not fear my wrath!’, he roars, baring his fangs.

His entire serpentine form begins to emit a sinister hiss, like a rattlesnake warning an intruder.

‘My name is Afanas, Initiate of the First Circle of Kinemancy and Strygian Mage of the Kadigir’, I reply, staring him down with scorn. ‘And don’t get it the other way round—you were the one who summoned me, to unleash snow and storm upon our enemies.’

His eye narrows, becoming almost a slit.

‘Yes, I remember. You were the bearer of my essence, and you survived, I see’, he teases suddenly. ‘What do you want, human?’

‘To know who imprisoned you within that world-tree. And whether it was through your doing that it came to die.’

He shudders suddenly, a growl thundering in his throat like distant stormclouds. Heavy snow begins to fall from the dark sky, and a sudden gust strikes me, nearly knocking me down. But I straighten, refusing to panic, summoning every thought needed to fortify my mind. I will not be the first to avert my gaze.

The Oneiros coils around me, pretending to ensnare me in his grip. I can feel his scales rise and fall like a chaotic tide. There is nowhere to run, no escape from his wrath.

‘That tree was already dead when I arrived…’, he hisses.

‘Then how did it become the shell of your torment?’ I raise my voice to be heard over his threatening whisper. ‘Was it the Tumult that caused it?’

His movements quicken, and a hurricane begins to spiral around me.

‘You already know the answer to that question.’

I frown as the dragon’s face comes back around to mine.

‘By trickery. Through unholy artifice’, he adds, almost with disgust.

Lindiwe may have been right. The method used had prevented any manifestation of the dragon as an Eidolon—as though someone had managed to completely excise him from the collective unconscious. Could it have been lost knowledge from the Yzmir, buried deep within the Faction's Mandates? It seemed impossible. And yet, there had been one similar case.

Of all magical anomalies, the Mirror had uniquely trapped an Oneiros, making it impossible to summon her again—as if her core idea had become a word always on the tip of the tongue, never quite spoken.

‘Who?’, I finally ask, curtly.

‘A human. With a mask of mother-of-pearl and a coat trimmed in…’

‘Chrysanthemums’, I interrupt, feeling my own anger begin to boil. ‘I see we share a common enemy.’

Lightning rips across the sky, striking the peak of Cais Adarra in rapid succession. Thunder cracks. In the distance, I hear the muffled rumble of an avalanche.

‘Know this, dragon—your rage is shared.’

Kuraokami coils around me like a noose tightening around a neck.

‘Then beware, human. Your enemy is sly and treacherous. Unlike you, I am eternal. This imprisonment is but a brief interlude in my existence. For you, it may be a living hell if you are caught.’

‘Then give me the weapons to defeat him!’

I shout the words, letting my fury show. He watches me calmly, his eye following me as he slowly circles.

‘It was a trap. And he turned it into a prison, triple-walled.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This place was not the desolate wasteland it is now. Cold did not reside here—I brought it with me. It was there, at the base of the world-tree, that he summoned me. My Eidolon appeared at his request, supposedly to regenerate the dead tree.’

Around his eyes, cerulean mists shimmer in the wind. His rage seems to have calmed, and soft snowflakes begin to drift through the air around us.

‘He lured me into the trunk and turned its bark into the walls of my cell. I howled and thundered, made the earth quake, sent winds screaming through the skies—but it was all in vain.’

The earth and stone tremble around me. I plant my ornate staff in the ground and glance at the Aether fragment embedded in its head. Within it, Senka slumbers—ready to leap to my aid if needed. But I doubt that will be necessary.

‘We felt your presence throughout the region’, I tell him.

‘But no matter how hard I struck, how much I thrashed, how many tempests I unleashed—rain, snow, hail—it did no good. And then the worst came…’

‘What do you mean, O kami?’

His eyes pierce me, now the color of a storm-tossed sea.

‘He used my power. Twisted it to serve his ends. He siphoned my essence to forge a terrible catastrophe. A wave that swept away everything in its path. A surge that devoured mountains.’

My stomach knots as I suddenly understand what he’s referring to. He speaks of the tsunami of water and Aether that crashed down upon Asgartha, nearly destroying Arkaster… So the Chrysanthemum Cloaked Warlock was behind that carnage.

Which meant he’d been active for nearly ninety years. How old was he? Or was he immortal? I grit my teeth and crack my neck instinctively.

‘Then came the slow construction of this ecosystem, and its population. The first wall was one of matter: the dead world-tree. The second was the cold wasteland he shaped using my essence, to deter anyone from getting close. And the third wall… The third wall was a species. One suited to the cold, that would do anything to keep outsiders away.’

‘The ones we now call the Belisenki.’

Kuraokami says nothing—but his silence is confirmation.

‘Like an indifferent gardener, he planted stakes and fences around me so that no one could reach me. That, human, is the tale of my imprisonment and disgrace. I hope you’re satisfied.’

I nod. There is no reason to keep him here any longer. Wherever he came from in the Empyrean, he likely has a realm to rebuild—or to save.

‘Thank you, god of rain and blizzard.’

For a brief moment, I think I see a flicker of melancholy or pain in his gaze. But before I can speak again, his long body arcs and rises, lifting into the air. Snow swirls around me, and I raise my arm to shield myself from the whirlwind trailing in his wake.

I watch as he pierces the dark, thunderous clouds, hear his roar—unsure if it’s a cry of fury or joy at finally being freed. Then, in a blinding flash of light, I see him vanish into a crackling tapestry of lightning.

I take a long breath to calm my heart and silence my fury.

‘Impressive, is it not?’

I suddenly spin around, snatching up my staff as I do and shifting immediately into a battle stance. My Irises flare to life, locking onto the figure who just addressed me.

Standing before me is a man with a mischievous glint in his eyes, both hands raised in a placating gesture. I recognize him instantly. His appearance matches the fresco Abracosa painted in the Conclave’s great hall—The Apostate’s Diatribe.

‘Wanjiru.’

Beside him stands an Initiate—probably his incarnation vessel. The young woman keeps her distance, adjusting her glasses at the tip of her nose. She doesn’t look comfortable in this hostile land. More the type to walk the halls of the Magisterium or lose herself in the dusty stacks of the Underside’s library than trek through the wilds.

‘This is Suha’, he says, following my gaze. ‘A new recruit who’s been assisting me lately.’

After giving her a quick once-over—from cloak to boots—I lose interest and cross my arms across my chest, projecting well-earned suspicion.

‘And what does the founder of the Qorgan want with me? I thought I made myself clear last time. I’m not interested in joining your witch hunt. I’ve probed Kojo—he barely understands what he did. I doubt he could even do it again. He just followed a moment of inspiration…’

Wanjiru offers a rueful smile.

‘That’s where you’re mistaken. Once a feat has been achieved, repeating it becomes far easier. And others can follow. But no—I’m not here for that. I’m here to lend you a hand. Because whether you admit it or not, you’re on your own witch hunt… or should I say, a warlock hunt.’

I glare at him.

‘You’d better explain yourself, Eidolon.’

‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you.’

Through my Irises, I see his form sharpen, gaining weight. I sense Suha channeling Mana into him—a thin trickle, but that’s not what catches my attention. He’s drawing on it, weaving Aether and Quintessence together. His form gains density—until even I can’t tell what he is anymore.

‘For a while now’, he continues, ‘the Qorgan has managed to materialize Eidolons that are completely undetectable to the average mortal—even to those with the sharpest Irises. We use them for espionage, of course. You know the nature of our work…’

I frown.

‘That doesn’t particularly surprise me.’

‘I figured as much. But take a moment to consider this: deep down, don’t you think our victory over the Kraken was a little too easy?’

For a second, I’m not sure what he’s getting at. Then it hits me. An illusion? A deception?

‘You think the Kraken wasn’t a Leviathan after all—but an Eidolon? That kind of summoning would require an insane amount of Mana. A nearly impossible feat…’

‘But not entirely impossible, I surmise?’

I begin to ponder, weighing the possibilities, trying to recall every detail of the assault. It’s possible. But still a heavy claim.

‘Why would someone go to such lengths?’

‘To stop us from looking beyond our own walls.’

I freeze, my thoughts suddenly derailed. Then shake my head.

‘Speculation.’

‘I’ll admit that. But there’s more. Since Amahle and his rebellion, we’ve suspected a group working in the shadows—deliberately stalling Asgartha’s expansion by orchestrating periodic unrest.’

‘To delay us?’

Wanjiru nods solemnly.

‘And in that context, the Kraken would be just another clever ruse—something to keep us tethered to our little corner of the world, with no goal beyond survival.’

He steps toward a small stone outcrop and gazes at the dead world tree in the distance, hands clasped behind his back.

‘I’ve had nearly a hundred and fifty years to investigate. In secret. Always with a tight circle of trusted individuals to keep things quiet. And after all this time, I believe the movement behind this resistance—the one restraining our growth—has been orchestrated by the same figures since the days of Kalu’s revolt.’

I exhale through my nose, letting my muscles relax.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Their methods go beyond mere tactics’, he mutters. ‘They share certain… identifiable traits. Almost like signatures.’

‘A kind of fingerprint they leave? They’d have to be immortal. Eidolons?’

Wanjiru nods again.

‘I call them the Perjurers. And when you step back and look closely, their influence touches every Faction. It’s subtle—but if you know where to look, patterns begin to emerge. Information vanishing from the Ordis. Secrets stolen from the Yzmir. Failed expeditions among the Bravos… Infiltrators, hidden in nearly every Faction, twisting their ideals from within.’

I clench my jaw.

‘And the Chrysanthemum Cloaked Warlock is the one embedded in ours.’

‘Exactly. Or so my theory goes.’

I study him carefully.

‘So what do you say?’

I take a deep breath.

‘Joining your cabal?’, I reply, exasperated. ‘All I see is the paranoid nature of an Oneiros projecting plots onto everything. It’s written in your identity.’

He shrugs, unfazed.

‘Doesn’t mean I’m wrong’, he says nonchalantly.

I stroke my beard.

‘You’ll need more than wild theories if you want me on board.’

Wanjiru meets my eyes, this time with a trace of irritation.

‘And what you discovered today isn’t enough? While we were barricaded in, others entered the Terra Incognita and twisted its secrets to suit their own ends. We will lose if we don’t stand together.’

I search his impassive expression, trying to spot any hint of deceit. But his face is unreadable. At last, he sighs and looks toward the jagged gorge, where the world tree—the one we called the Nilam—still stretches skyward.

‘Please, Afanas. There’s no reason we shouldn’t join forces.’

‘I won’t be a pawn in your schemes, Wanjiru.’

He exhales slowly.

‘I’m not here to play games. All I care about is Asgartha’s safety.’

I chuckle bitterly and shake my head.

‘Grand ideals aren’t enough to win me over, Eidolon.’

‘Fine. Then hear this: I relentlessly hunt our—and the nation’s—enemies. The one you’re after is among them. I mean to flush him out. As for his punishment—I’ll leave that in your hands.’

Suha shifts uncomfortably but says nothing.

‘Where were you’, I growl, ‘when I shouted his name to my peers? When they laughed in my face?’

‘I was listening. And working from the shadows. I admit it—I deliberately fueled their disbelief and mockery. If the hierarchy took your claims seriously, he might’ve gone to ground, never to resurface…’

Despite my resentment, I know he was right to act that way. I would’ve done the same in his position. And I have to give him credit—it took guts to admit his role in my disgrace.

‘So you want me to be bloodhound, judge, and executioner?’

‘Yes. That’s exactly what I’m offering’, he says, almost casually.

I narrow my gaze, trying to pierce through his layers. Could he be lying? Certainly. Could he be using me as a weapon? Of course. But I weigh every risk against what he’s offering: vengeance, plain and simple.

And there it is—burning in front of me like an open flame. Maybe I can use him, too.