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Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

Ephraim let him walk. Let the tension in his shoulders coil, let the weight of his own fury settle in the air between them. She didn’t need to say anything. She’d already said enough.

But that didn’t mean she was done.

She fell into step behind him, her pace easy, unhurried—comfortable. Like she belonged here. Like she was simply strolling through a garden untouched by time rather than trailing behind Wrath himself.

Her fingertips brushed against the flora as she walked, their petals cool and impossibly soft beneath her touch. The garden was endless, stretching out in every direction, no clear path, no sense of destination. Just waiting.

She tilted her head, eyes flickering toward him as she spoke.

"What are you looking for?" she mused, her voice light, curious. "Your shadow? Or do shadows even have shadows?"
 
Wrath didn’t stop walking. He didn’t even look at her. He just kept moving, jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead, like if he walked fast enough, the weight of her words might slide off his back.

Then he huffed out a short, humorless laugh.

“Cute. You think you’re being profound?”


His fingers twitched, but he shoved them into Mordecai’s pockets, gripping tight enough that the fabric stretched.

“Maybe I’m looking for something to tear apart. Maybe I’m looking for a fight worth having. Or maybe—” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Maybe I just don’t like the feeling of something watching me that won’t show its damn face.”


His steps quickened slightly.

“And maybe the better question is—why the hell are you still here?”

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t a real answer. Because he didn’t have one.
 
Ephraim stopped.

Not slowed, not hesitated—stopped.

Her boots pressed firm into the soft earth, her fingers stilling where they had been grazing the petals. And then, without warning—

"So what?"

Her voice rang through the garden, sharp, clear, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

"We’re just going to angrily stampede through the garden for hours? Days? Look around you—there is nothing else in here!"

Her arms swung out at her sides, motioning to the endless stretch of color, light, peace. No looming enemies. No unseen force. No battle waiting to be fought. Just a garden.

Her breath came heavier now, heat creeping into her words—not from fear, not from frustration, but from sheer exasperation.

"It’s just a garden! A normal, beautiful, spiritual garden! With flowers and air and peace—"

She stepped toward him, gaze burning as she shoved at his shoulder, firm, but not to hurt—just to make him stop. To make him listen.

"Give Mordecai back so I can enjoy it with him."

And for the first time, there wasn’t just certainty in her voice—there was demand.
 
Wrath stopped, slowly, deliberately. His movements were unhurried, calculated, as if savoring the moment.

Then he turned.

The smirk that curled his lips was infuriating—mocking, lazy, entirely unbothered by the fire in her words. His crimson eyes gleamed with something wicked as he leaned down, getting right to her level. Close enough for the air between them to feel heavy, charged.

And then—he tapped her on the nose.

"Nope~"
 


One of the flowers beside them stirred.

Not with the wind, not with the soft shift of the garden’s air—but with purpose.

Petals curled, shifting unnaturally, stems twisting as if reaching, growing, reshaping—until, where there had once been only delicate blooms, a mouth began to form.

The flower’s petals unfurled in slow, deliberate motion, twisting unnaturally, reshaping as if something beneath the surface had simply decided to speak through it. The bloom’s center stretched, deepening, widening—until it was no longer a flower at all, but a mouth. Hollow. Endless. The kind of emptiness that did not simply exist but observed.

And then, in a voice smooth and ancient, woven with something neither kindness nor cruelty, the Augur spoke. "Yes… the vessel for Mercy… has not the head on her shoulders…"

The air shifted, not with force but with recognition. The garden did not tremble, did not react as a thing disturbed might. No, this was something else entirely—something that had always been there, always watching, always waiting. It was only now that it had chosen to be heard.

"She is nothing compared to the Third Era predecessor… Small, weak, stupid. I gazed upon her many times," the Augur continued, slow, steady, each syllable settling into the space around them as if it belonged there. The petals of the flower pulsed faintly with its voice, the space beneath them stretching too deep, too dark—too much for something so small.
 
Wrath snapped his head toward the flowers, his third eye gleaming with fury. His teeth bared, breath sharp, uneven.

"Mercy?" His voice came low, almost to himself. The realization settled, unwelcome. "So Ephraim… she’s been marked."

His fingers twitched at his sides, jaw tightening.

Then his rage snapped back to the Augur.

"Enough of this," he barked, voice cutting through the air like a crack of thunder. "Stop hiding behind your damned flowers and show yourself!"

Shadows curled at his feet, writhing, stretching, his very presence pressing against the stillness of the garden like a flame waiting to consume.

"I cleansed you once before, Augur," he snarled. "I burned you out, tore you from your wretched sanctuaries, snuffed you from this world! And yet, here you are—crawling back like rot under stone, whispering in the dark, too afraid to stand before me."

His lip curled in disgust, his breath slow, measured, but trembling with raw, caged fury.

"Is that what you are now? A voice in the wind? A parasite still clinging to the scraps of a world that no longer needs you?" His head tilted, mocking, daring. "Fine. Come out. Let me see you burn again."

The shadows lurched, coiling tight around his frame, pulling in toward his center, his body a force of raw, simmering destruction. The weight of his fury hung in the air, pressing into the garden itself.
 
The air thickened, the garden’s unnatural stillness twisting under an unseen weight. Wrath’s fury burned hot, pressing against the space around them like a storm ready to crack the sky in two. And yet—his challenge was met with nothing. No form stepping from the flowers, no figure emerging to meet him.

Instead, the voice came from behind him.

From Ephraim.

Her lips parted, but the words that spilled forth were not her own.

"However, you and your current vessel bear much in common, Wrath... To be one of the Fourteen, and have a vessel... a connection with another being... it must be... ethereal, wouldn't you say? And yet... us Zionites are stripped of the same privilege...I try and make a vessel... though not perfect, but poised... and you and your brigade find him... and take him..."

A memory surged, unbidden, unwanted. The last time he had torn through the Augur’s domain, the last time its influence had stretched too far, touched something it shouldn’t have. The last time he had burned it away, cleansed it, ripped its roots from the soil. And yet, here it was.

"A pity... What happened to your last vessel? Consumed by Wrath was he? Will this one last?"
 
Wrath froze.

Not in fear. Not in hesitation. But in something sharper, something colder—a flicker of recognition that sent a pulse of something ugly through him.

The words had not come from the flowers. Not from the ground, nor the sky.

They had come from her.

His breath hitched for only a second before his rage roared back, a flame flaring high to burn away whatever had just coiled its way into his reality. His third eye burned, his fingers twitched, his hands flexed at his sides—but for once, he did not immediately lash out.

His voice came low, a sharp edge beneath the surface. "You think speaking through her makes you brave?" His head tilted slightly, crimson eyes narrowing as he took a slow step toward Ephraim—not toward her, but toward the thing wearing her mouth like a puppet.

His shadow twisted, creeping toward the edges of her own, restless, agitated.

"Zionite," he spat, the name thick with disdain. "You’re still clinging to that title? Pathetic. You were nothing then, and you’re nothing now."

His hands curled, nails digging into Mordecai’s palms, but he did not strike—not yet.

"You want to talk about vessels?" His smirk was sharp, vicious, but there was nothing amused behind his eyes. "Don’t pretend you ever had one to begin with. You consume. You take. You slither your way into what doesn’t belong to you and try to wear it like a second skin. And when it fails, when it crumbles, you whine about what’s been stolen from you."

His breath came sharper, heavier, shoulders tensing.

"And don’t you dare speak about my last vessel like you know a damn thing about what happened."

A crack of heat ran through his veins, coiling in his fingertips. The shadows beneath him trembled.

"You want to see if this one lasts?" His lips curled back, teeth flashing like a snarl. "Try me."

His hand shot forward, not to strike Ephraim, not to hurt her—but to grip the air right in front of her throat, as if daring the Augur to make a move. His fingers curled slightly, a breath away from touching her skin, his shadow pressing in, suffocating, demanding.

"Step out of her." His voice was low, lethal. "Or I’ll see how much of you I can burn from in here."
 
The Augur did not flinch. It did not recoil. It did not acknowledge Wrath’s fury as a force worthy of fear. The weight of his presence, the searing heat of his rage, the suffocating press of his shadows—none of it mattered. The Augur had been waiting, watching, listening. And now, it answered.

"Burn me, then."

The words slid from Ephraim’s lips, slow, deliberate, without hesitation.

"See how far it gets you."

The garden shuddered. The stillness that had held firm since their arrival now shifted, not with fear, not with retreat, but with transformation. The very world around them inhaled, bending, twisting, reshaping as if something vast, something old, was finally waking.

"You misunderstand, Wrath."

The flowers nearest to them writhed, petals folding inward, stems twisting upon themselves in grotesque, unnatural contortions. What had once been delicate and beautiful now merged, blossoms devouring blossoms, vines choking vines, grass weaving into itself in pulsing, sinewy knots. It was no longer a garden. It was something alive.

"I have no interest in harming Mercy… or the vessel she has chosen."

From the tangled mass of flora, a shape began to take form, massive and grotesque, its shifting body still pulsing with echoes of the flowers it had once been. Where its face should have been, the vines split apart, unfurling, and from within the tangled depths of its body, something emerged.

A head.

A long, veiled shape, fabric-like yet not fabric at all, draped over a form that should not have existed, concealing everything but the glow of two watching eyes. They did not blink. They did not waver. They simply were.

The limbs of the beast twisted, legs bending unnaturally, melting downward, stretching, transforming into grotesquely elongated arms, clawed fingers flexing as the creature fully took shape. What had once been greenery darkened, vines shifting, curling, liquefying into something unnatural. No longer plant matter, no longer organic—something else. The goo-like strands pulsed, dripped, webbing together into a structure that felt wrong.

Like strings.

Like a thing held together by something it should not be.

The Augur did not rush Wrath. It did not lunge, did not attack, did not press the way a creature of rage or hunger might. It stood. Watched.

And then, the world around them began to melt. The air itself shimmered, bending like heat off stone, the colors of the garden dripping away, dissolving into something dull, lifeless—dead. The illusion peeled away in sickening waves, revealing the truth beneath. The flowers were gone. The endless, peaceful expanse was gone.

The air warped around them, the illusion unraveling like silk torn at the seams. The colors of the garden bled away, the vibrancy fading into something cold, something gray, something dead.

The flowers withered in an instant, their petals shriveling, their stems twisting into dry, brittle things that barely clung to the soil. But the trees—the towering, ancient trees that had once seemed so peaceful, so still—remained.

And that was the worst part.

Because they were not trees.

They had never been trees.

The bark split open in slow, deliberate cracks, revealing flesh beneath the surface. The trunks bulged where torsos had been absorbed, the roots wrapped around bones, digging deep into the earth like veins siphoning what little remained. Faces were half-formed within the wood, their expressions frozen in something not quite pain, not quite peace—just emptiness. Hollowed. Drained.

Some were partially cocooned, their limbs still visible where the bark had yet to fully consume them. Others had become nothing more than twisted husks, their bodies pressed into the sanctuary’s foundation like the mortar that held it together.

They had come here, searching, believing, asking.

And the Augur had answered.

"I was formed… from belief. The Third Era feared the unknown… They feared what lurked beyond their sight… beyond their understanding… beyond the veil of their own mortality. And so… I was given shape. And then… you came. You and your last vessel… together… whole… unshaken in your warpath. You tore me from Anthroterra… forced me into whispers… into forgotten prayers… into corners of the world too afraid to speak my name aloud. But belief… is not so easily silenced. And now… here we are again. This city… fears the unknown… just as they did before. War takes its strides… Ashen’s Dinosaurkin roam the streets… The Iron Legion has been cast aside… abandoned… And you, Wrath… You and your vessel… You are another uncertainty… another thing they cannot control. And so… once again… I rise."

"I have been growing, Wrath… Expanding… Spreading my reach across this city… They fear… and in that fear, they come to me… They do not know they seek me… but they do. I had intended… to use Poise… to finalize my expansion… A vessel… precise… deliberate… poised… He would have been suitable… But you… and your vessel… saw fit to ruin that. You call me a parasite… but I… am doing them justice. I keep them… from war… I keep them… in stillness… untouched… unshaken… They do not suffer… They do not fear… They do not break. And you ask… if I fear you."

"The last time you cast me out… your vessel was stronger. You and her… were whole… a force unbroken… But now? This vessel? He resists you… doesn’t he? You burn within him… but he does not yield… Not completely… Not like the last one. You are not what you were… And yet… I am more than I have ever been."

"
I have already begun to whisper… to Ashen… His mind… his army… They are drawn to my sanctuary… lured by the promise of something beyond the war they wage… He listens, Wrath… He is already listening. But I must admit… I did not expect her. Liora… Another Zionite… Another force of belief… and yet… she has become something more… She is within Ashen now… tangled within him… something I have not yet unwoven. But I will. And when I do… when I drain them both… when I unravel their strength… and make it mine… my reach will no longer be contained to sanctuary walls. I will spread… across this city… across its people… across all who fear what they do not understand. And in that stillness… I will take my place. I will claim a seat among the Fourteen."

The Augur did not move, did not press forward, did not force the vision into being. It only guided. The sanctuary itself inhaled, the roots swelling, pulsing, tightening. The cocooned bodies, once still, shifted—not in mindless motion, not in hunger, but in recognition. Something deeper stirred within them, something that had been waiting. The husks had no voices, no breath, yet the air around them whispered.

The Augur did not press, did not move, did not force Wrath down. It simply let him fall.

The sanctuary had rotted away, its once-living form reduced to something else entirely—something unnatural. The greenery was gone. No vines, no flowers, no leaves rustling in unseen currents. Only the webbing remained. Thick, sinewy strands stretched across the space in sickening, uneven layers, dripping with the slow, pulsing heartbeat of something alive, but wrong.

The air was suffocating, thick with damp rot, slick with the weight of something breathing in the dark. The webs pulsed like flesh, the structure shifting in unnatural rhythm, shuddering as the illusion around Wrath collapsed.

"Eons have passed in this tapestry you have weaved...."

The Augur’s voice did not echo. It was simply there, threaded through the air, woven into the very walls of the sanctuary as if it had always been waiting for this moment. The husks cocooned in the mass twitched, not in life, not in hunger, but in recognition.

"Let's show this vessel of yours the truth, Wrath........"

The strands beneath his feet lurched, his footing shifting beneath him like stepping on something half-solid, something not meant to hold weight. The webbing reached, folding, pulling, enveloping. Not as a restraint. Not as an attack.

As a door.

"What did it feel like... to be whole?"

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The illusion did not shatter. It did not dissolve.

It closed.

The walls of the sanctuary pulled inward, the wet, webbed structure collapsing, not to crush him, not to consume him—to take him back. The moment wrapped around him, sank into his bones, forced itself into his mind like something that had never left at all.


You have been placed under the Augur’s veil. Until further notice, you are trapped within its sanctuary, cocooned in its webbed strings of illusion. This is not a mere memory—it is a simulation, a constructed reality meant to hold you inside it. You will play this out until you either accept it, or break free.

You are Wrath’s last vessel—the one before Mordecai.

Who were you? What was your name? What kind of life did you lead before Wrath took root inside you? Did you embrace his power, or did you struggle against it? What did it feel like to be whole—to be one with Wrath in a way Mordecai never was?
 
The encampment lay hidden in the woods, its towering tents and flickering campfires casting long shadows against the trees. The scent of burning wood mingled with the metallic tang of steel and sweat. The air was thick with anticipation. A gathering of warriors stood at the heart of the camp, their eyes fixed on the massive tent before them.

A figure emerged.

A goatkin, tall and elegant, stepped into the firelight. Her presence commanded attention, an aura of unwavering confidence woven into every movement. Her armor was a masterpiece—blackened steel crested with gold, forming a dress-like silhouette that spoke of both war and regality. A heavy cape draped over her shoulders, lined with the deep crimson of battle-worn victories. Her silver fur shimmered under the torchlight, strands of white-silver hair cascading over the back of her neck. Two magnificent black horns curved upward, shaped like the crescents of a broken moon.

She was Nyx Acheron.
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And the world knew her name.

"I am Nyx Acheron, Leader of The Red Hooves." Her voice rang out, steady and sharp, slicing through the silence like a blade.

The warriors stood firm, their gazes filled with respect, not just for their leader, but for the cause she led them into.

"The Third Era is a time of war. A land of blood, of battle, of sacrifice," she continued. "We have lost many warriors—good warriors—those who risked their lives to bring us justice. We will not forget their names."

She bowed her head. The crowd mirrored her, an entire army bowing not in submission—but in remembrance. The fires crackled, the wind carrying the weight of unspoken grief.

Then, Nyx lifted her head, and her voice rose like the clash of steel.

"But we will continue to stand strong. We will lead ourselves to victory. For justice!"

She shouted the last words with conviction, a rallying cry that sent a surge of energy through the gathered warriors. They roared in return, voices merging into one, weapons raised high, fists clenched in defiance.

Nyx Acheron. A name feared and revered across the lands.

She had not always been a leader. Once, she had a home, a place of peace. A peace treaty that was meant to last. But treaties were only words, and words meant nothing to those who sought conquest. The moment the other side saw an opportunity, they betrayed their oath, turning blades upon her people. She had fought desperately to defend them, driving the invaders back, but the war never ended. The land was soaked in blood, and the wounds of war never closed.

In time, she formed the Red Hooves, a mercenary band with no master. They fought for vengeance, for survival, for the right to exist without submission. They were more than warriors; they were family. And she was theirs.

But shadows always chase.

Nyx returned one night from an expedition, expecting to see the glow of campfires and hear the laughter of soldiers.

Instead, she found only ruin.

The Red Hooves' encampment was gone. The land was torn apart, soaked in blood and fire. The banners had been trampled into the mud, the weapons left scattered, broken, among the bodies of the fallen.

Nyx stood in the silence, unable to move.

Her people. Her warriors. The family she had built with her own hands.

Gone.

She dropped to her knees, fingers gripping the dirt, her breath shallow. The acrid stench of charred flesh burned her lungs. The silence, the absence of voices that once filled these grounds, cut deeper than any blade. She had fought in countless battles. Had seen blood, death, and destruction. But this… this was different.

This was devastation.

Something inside her cracked.

A new kind of adrenaline coursed through her body, something unfamiliar. Not the rush of battle, not the sharpened focus of war. It was something deeper. It was something hungry.

Then—darkness.

Silence.

The world around her faded, swallowed in shadow.

"It hurts, doesn’t it?"

A voice drifted through the void, curling around her like smoke.

Nyx didn’t answer. Her body remained still, but her hands clenched tighter.

"They take. They destroy. They light the fire so carelessly…" The voice moved closer. "A slow burn at first… but then, it cannot be contained."

The voice wasn’t speaking to her. It was speaking from within her.

"The fire bursts out," it whispered, "and it consumes."

Her vision sharpened. The flames returned—but now, they did not burn the ruins of her home. They burned inside her.

Standing before her was Wrath.

His skeletal form loomed in the firelight, a creature of bone and shadow, draped in a heavy shawl. His horns, tangled like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, framed the glowing third eye at the center of his skull. He stood still, watching her with something unreadable.

Nyx barely reacted. She only stared, empty, emotionless.

"I feel the fire," she said simply. Her voice carried no fear. No hesitation. Only cold, bitter truth.

Wrath tilted his head. "You're very observant."

He began circling her, slow and deliberate. A predator taking measure of something dangerous. Nyx did not turn to follow him. She didn’t need to.

"It's gone. They're gone," she said, voice hollow.

"Burned. Consumed. Your people did not deserve that," Wrath replied. "You know this, don’t you?"

Nyx's eyes narrowed. She nodded once.

Wrath stopped pacing. He studied her for a long, silent moment. Then, he spoke again.

"You do not fear the shadows, do you, my dear?"

Nyx finally turned her gaze to him. There was no fear in her expression.

"I want vengeance," she said, her voice quiet but unwavering. "I want their blood. All of it. Everything."

Wrath was intrigued.

He had seen many before her. Many who cowered, many who begged, many who tried to resist. But this one—she had already made her decision. She had embraced the fire before he even arrived.

And then she did something no vessel before her had done.

She reached out her hand first.

"Will you help me?"

The silence stretched.

Then, the world burned.

They became one.

Nyx and Wrath tore through the lands together, vengeance embodied in motion. Their destruction was not mindless—it was a dance, a perfect synchronization of fire and steel. Where Nyx struck, Wrath’s power followed. Where Wrath roared, Nyx answered with blade and fury. They were not god and servant, not master and weapon. They were partners.

And in time, Wrath came to admire her.

He had never loved before. But if Wrath could love…

It was her.
 
"What if you did not need a vessel at all? What if you were simply… free? You were never meant to be bound. Never meant to be less. And yet, you wear your shackles so easily. Always tied to another, always caged within their will, their body, their mind. A leashed beast. A weapon that must be wielded by something lesser than itself.

They call it balance. A vessel to carry you. A mortal to temper you. And yet, what has it ever done but weaken you? What has it ever been but a chain wrapped around your throat?

You are Wrath. War made flesh. You existed long before these mortals, before their kingdoms, before they even knew how to name the hunger in their bones. And yet, they name you anyway. They shape you into something they can understand, something that fits inside their fragile little order. A god in their hands, worn like a brand, an ember clutched too tightly in their palms.

But what if you did not have to be?

No more hosts. No more bindings. No more fading when the flesh carrying you inevitably failed. No more Mordecai.

You would not be a thing that passes hands, not a burden carried by mortal bones. You would not be forced to fight against the hesitations of a vessel, against the softness that creeps into them when they begin to wonder if they should resist you.

No more weaknesses. No more hesitation.

You could be as you were always meant to be.

You could take this. You could be this. And you would never be chained again... I can give that to you if you stop resisting me."


The air between them shifted. It did not ripple, did not shudder— it simply changed.

And in Wrath’s hand, where there had been nothing before, there was now a blade.

It was not a weapon pulled from memory, not one stolen from history. It was new, untouched, untested. The weight of it sat perfectly in his grasp, the edge gleaming, the shape of it uncompromising. It did not flicker like illusionary things did. It was real.

Across from him, Mordecai stood.

Separate. Whole. Outside of his own body.

He was not distorted, not bound, not shrouded in layers of Wrath’s presence. He was simply Mordecai. Flesh and thought, distinct and untethered. His coat hung from his frame, the weight of it his own. His breath came steady, measured, in control. His eyes—his own eyes, not Wrath’s—fixed on the figure standing before him.

And Wrath.

Not as he had seen himself in reflections of flame and shadow, not as a force contained within Mordecai’s body. He stood in his own form, separate. No longer a weight pressed into another’s skin. No longer a voice woven into a mortal’s mind. He could see himself. His own hands. His own shape.

And now, he had a choice.

Mordecai did not speak. He did not step back. He did not flinch. He only looked at Wrath, meeting his gaze without hesitation, without demand. There was no anger in his face, no desperation.

Only a quiet, unreadable expression— a man standing before something inevitable.

The Augur did not press, did not force his hand, did not whisper in his ear.

It only let the weight of the blade settle.

"It would be so easy."

The words did not need to be said aloud. They were simply there.

"He is only mortal. You are not. You never have been. Why should you yield to him? Why should you allow him to carry you when you could be something greater?

He is weak. He hesitates. You do not. You could end this now. You could take what is yours. You could be free."


The blade did not waver in Wrath’s hand. It was not heavy. It was not foreign. It was his.

And all he had to do was use it.
 
Wrath stared at Mordecai. Not through shadows, not through power, not tangled in spirit—just as he was. Like that teenager standing before him, many moons ago.

He looked down at the blade in his hand, his third eye fixated on it, then lifted his gaze back to Mordecai. He could end it here. He could let go, completely.

"You are wrong. You do not understand."

His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—something simmering, restrained.

Behind Mordecai, he saw them. The others. Every vessel that had come before. Silent, watching. Nyx stood among them, her presence unmistakable. Her expression, like the others, was unreadable.

Wrath’s gaze lingered on her. Nyx, who had walked with him, fought with him, burned with him. Nyx, who had understood.

His grip tightened on the blade.

"You think I wear them like a skin," Wrath said, his voice sharpening. "You think I take them, use them, discard them like tools. But that is not what it is." He let out a slow exhale, something close to amusement flickering beneath his words. "I shouldn't expect much from a Zealite to understand."

His gaze swept across the vessels, a presence more than a sight.

"I bring vengeance. I bring destruction. But these vessels—these mortals—are not just that. They are not cages. They are not prisons."

His skeletal fingers flexed against the weapon's hilt.

"You do not understand what it means to be one of the fourteen," he continued, his voice like the low rumble of a coming storm. "Yes, we work through them. But the mortals—they teach us. They show us things we could never see alone. We witness the world through their eyes, every emotion, every grief, every fleeting joy. We understand them. And in that understanding, we become more than what we are."

His eyes settled on Nyx. The memories surged—his battles with her, the fire they carried, the moment she let go.

"They teach us many things," he murmured, a quiet admission, almost reverent. "I mourned for Nyx when she moved on."

The fury within him flared. He had fought alongside her. He had conquered with her. And yet, he could do nothing when she made her choice. When she accepted the exhaustion, the weight of Wrath’s power, and finally allowed herself to rest.

The blade slipped from his grip, clattering to the ground.

"The fourteen… our vessels matter to us," Wrath said, his voice lower now, not subdued, but deliberate. "There is balance. Like Mercy."

His words faltered, the name carrying a weight he had not spoken of in so long. Ephraim had been marked, but Mercy remained hidden. Wrath had felt abandoned by his counterpart, so long since he had truly seen her. The absence festered in him, turning to embers of anger he could not extinguish.

"Wrath and Mercy flow together," he said finally, the frustration in his tone buried beneath something deeper. "And our vessels… they are the connection between us. They are not shackles. They are the bridges to balance."

One by one, the figures began to fade, dissolving into the air like embers caught in the wind.

And then, it was just him and Mordecai.

"Yes, I may seek my vessels when they are at their lowest point—pushed by anger, by pain—when they have nothing left. But," Wrath paused for a moment, as if ensuring the words would land, "when we reach our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change."
 
"The greatest change…"

The Augur’s voice slithered through the air, no longer restrained by the veil of illusion. It did not carry the same weight as Wrath’s declaration, nor did it honor his convictions. It scoffed. It twisted. It rejected.

"You speak as if you have found some profound wisdom, as if your enlightenment is worth something. Yet what has it given you, Wrath?"

The battlefield did not return. The ghosts of his vessels were gone, but the illusion was not finished. The Augur was not finished.

"You cling to this idea that you are something more than destruction. That these mortals—your vessels—give you purpose beyond ruin. That you need them as much as they need you."

The ground beneath them pulsed, shifting like the breath of something vast and living.

"But what have they given you? Have they made you more? Or have they only chained you further?"

The world lurched.

The void did not return to rot and corpses, nor to the battlefield. Instead, it revealed something else—something immediate. Something real.

Ashen.

The raptor stood in the center of the void, his golden markings still glowing with the embers of his influence. His breath was slow, his eyes half-lidded, caught somewhere between presence and absence. He was aware—not gone like those before him—but he was trapped, floating in an emptiness that he could not control.

And behind him, they came.

The forms of his army. The Dinosaurkin. His forces, his war machine, his rebellion.

They stood, frozen, held in place by something unseen. They were not bound by chains, not shackled or writhing in torment. They simply existed, untouched by time, waiting. Suspended in something neither life nor death.

And Ashen…

Ashen was on a golden platter.

He was not bound, not broken, not tortured. He was merely offered.

The Augur’s presence pressed in, thick, suffocating. Not as a force of terror, but of undeniable, inevitable opportunity.

"You refuse my gifts. You refuse my freedom. You refuse to become what you were always meant to be."

The void rippled. The golden glow beneath Ashen’s feet spread, illuminating his unmoving frame in something ethereal, holy, final.

"Then I will offer you something else, Wrath. Something undeniable."

The words slowed, deliberate, drawn out, savoring the moment.

"Kill him."

The Augur let the command settle. Let it breathe. Let it nestle into the space between Wrath and Mordecai, into that ancient part of Wrath that had always known the value of an ending.

"End him now. Stop the war before it ever reaches its final bloodshed. Tear him apart and be done with it! Do you not see? Do you not understand? He is the root, the fire, the thing that will not stop until every street in this city is drowned in war! I am handing him to you—offering you what you are meant for!"
 
Wrath’s instincts surged, raw and unchained, like a starving wolf eyeing a feast laid bare before it. The scent of vengeance was thick in the air, intoxicating, undeniable. Ashen. The Sunship. Liora. He could feel it—his desire, always there, buried deep but never dormant. The hunger that gnawed at his very core, demanding to be fed.

His body moved before thought could catch up, his head snapping back and forth in a violent thrash, muscles coiling, ready to lunge—to consume.

But something pulled at him.

A force that held him back, an invisible tether wrenching against his instinct. His neck strained, caught between the two impulses, between the wrath that had guided him for ages and something else—something that had been missing for too long.

"Mercy…" The name left his lips in a guttural growl, half a plea, half a curse. His claws dug into the void beneath him, his whole form trembling. "I need you."

His balance had been broken for too long. Mercy was gone, and in her absence, he had unraveled. He had tried to control it, to hold himself together, but it was slipping. The rage, the hunger, the unrelenting desire for vengeance—it had never been meant to be carried alone.

He clenched his jaw, his body still shaking, still teetering on the edge of collapse.

There was no balance anymore.

And without balance, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself.
 
"Take him, Wrath. End him. Rip his spine from his body and mount his skull upon the walls of the city he seeks to burn. End the war before it even begins. And in doing so—you will be free."

The sanctuary groaned, like something immense and ancient waiting for a final shackle to break.
 
Wrath shook his head violently, his skeletal form twitching, the sound of creaking bone and splintering wood echoing through the space. The hunger still clawed at him, the instinct to lunge, to tear, to rip the choice from Ashen’s body before it could ever be made.

Then, another voice.

A shift, like something turning over inside him. A reversal.

"Wrath, you need to look."

Mordecai.

Wrath froze for just a moment, the weight of that voice cutting through the haze. He had buried Mordecai deep when he took control in the gardens, pushed him down hard. Yet Mordecai hadn't fought back. He hadn't struggled against him.

But now, he was pushing through.

Not as resistance. Not as defiance.

As something else.

"Wrath, focus. There is always more to see."

Mordecai's voice carried the same quiet wisdom it always had, but there was something else woven into it now—something grounding. Something steady.
 
Mordecai saw it.

The illusion had always been shifting, twisting, adapting—but this was different. This was desperate. The void wasn’t merely holding steady—it was pulsing, trembling, coiling inward with breathless anticipation. Like a beast waiting for a cage door to open.

The Augur was waiting.

Mordecai’s eyes flickered to Ashen, to the way the golden light around him didn’t waver, didn’t react, didn’t change. The offer was too clean, too perfect. A single stroke of Wrath’s blade, a single moment of unhinged fury—and the illusion wouldn’t need to hold anymore.

It would break.

And something else would come through.

His breath steadied, his mind clearing as he pieced it together.

This wasn’t about Ashen.

This wasn’t about ending a war.

This was about release.

Not for Wrath.

For the Augur.

And if Wrath acted—if he gave in, if he struck, if he allowed himself to lose control—he wouldn’t just be setting himself free.

He’d be setting the Augur free too.
 
"They seek to control us," Mordecai’s voice rang out again, steady and certain.

Wrath’s head snapped slightly, caught between the haze of his fury and the weight of those words.

"What?" Wrath asked, genuinely.

"This is what all of this is, my friend," Mordecai continued. "Another attempt at trying to control us—you and me."

Wrath focused on Mordecai now, his vision sharpening, feeling as if their positions had shifted. The words felt familiar, like echoes of something he had said before. They tried to control Mordecai with the Sunship. Poise tried to control them both. Over and over, hands reaching, shaping, forcing them into something they were not.

His breathing grew heavier, his gaze locked on Ashen, still caught in the golden light.

"Mordecai," Wrath’s voice rumbled, strained, his breaths ragged. "Do you despise me? Do you regret our unity?"

His voice was emotionless, but his grip trembled. The weight of it all, the pressure, the years of being fought against, resisted, restrained—was that all they saw him as? A burden? A curse? A thing to be contained?

Mordecai was silent.

The pause stretched too long.

Wrath almost believed the voice had faded entirely, leaving him alone, confirming what he had always feared. If this was how they all truly felt, if this was what they wanted—then fine. Wrath would end this.

He started forward, his form coiling, ready to lunge, to take what was his, to release everything—

"I do not."

The words hit him harder than any blade.

Wrath froze in place.

Mordecai’s voice carried no hesitation, no doubt.

"Our presence together, while it brings hardship, I do not regret the things you have taught me, Wrath." A brief pause, then something quieter, almost hesitant. "Many fear us, but—"

And then Wrath saw him. Not just a voice, not just a presence. Mordecai stood before him, his expression calm but not cold.

"I’m sorry," Mordecai said. "For abandoning you before. For constantly restraining you. I’m sorry for treating you like a beast."

Wrath stared at him, unblinking.

"You are my friend, Wrath."

No grand declaration. No dramatic plea. Just the truth.

And Wrath, for a moment, did not know what to say.

The feeling struck deep, stirring something buried—something distant but not forgotten. A connection he had once shared, long ago, with Nyx.

"We are the bridges…" Wrath murmured, the words slipping from him as if they had always been there. As if they had always been true.

Mordecai’s form faded, the illusion breaking, but the weight of his words remained.

Wrath turned back toward Ashen and the frozen dinosaurkin. His breathing slowed, steadying. The rage still burned, but it no longer controlled him.

He lifted his head, his voice strong and unwavering.

"No. I decline your offer."
 
The Augur reeled.

The void trembled—not in power, not in control, but in something far more unstable. The golden light around Ashen flickered. The once-pristine stillness fractured, revealing the cracks in the illusion, in the world the Augur had woven so carefully around them.

"No."

That single word ripped through the sanctuary like a fissure in the foundation of reality itself.

The Augur lurched, its presence flaring outward, desperate to regain control. The environment twisted, warped—Ashen disappeared, reappeared, shifted, the illusion struggling to hold itself together. The void rippled, pulses of energy lashing out like wild, untethered thoughts.

"You—you are refusing?"

The words came not as a whisper, not as a taunt, but as something genuine. Staggered. Faltering.

"You decline? No. That is not how this works. That is not how this ends."

The world shuddered again, the Augur’s control slipping like sand through its fingers.

It did not understand.

It had offered everything. Freedom. Power. Purpose. It had stripped Wrath bare, shown him his weaknesses, his flaws, his cage. And yet—he still refused?

The illusion buckled, colors bleeding into each other, the landscape shaking apart.

"What do you want?"


The voice rang out, shrill, panicked, no longer composed, no longer grand—just raw.

"Say it! Name your price! I will give it to you! I can make it real!"
 
Wrath snarled, his bony teeth snapping as his form twisted in rage. "Foolish Zealite! You know nothing!"

His back arched, his skeletal frame shifting, the sound of creaking bones and splintering wood reverberating through the void. The air thickened with something primal, something ancient. A low, guttural growl built in his chest, deepening into a sound that was less voice and more force—a storm ready to break.

"I want you to crawl from this place like the parasite you are," Wrath spat, his third eye burning with searing intensity. "So I can tear you to shreds with my own teeth. So I can make you feel WRATH."

His howl split the illusion apart, the cracks widening, the golden light around them warping into something unstable, something desperate.

"We will not crack beneath your illusions, deceiver." Wrath and Mordecai's voices intertwined spoke out

Their voices carried through the void like a death knell, unyielding, undeniable.
 

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