The descent felt like falling and standing still at the same time.

Althea kept her eyes on Lucian’s back, the only solid thing in the swirling chaos. The vortex pulled at her, whispers brushing against her mind, promises and threats she couldn’t quite make out. She ignored them all and focused on moving one foot after another.

Then the darkness peeled away.

They stood on solid ground again. The space was vast, a cavern so enormous its ceiling was lost in shadow. The walls pulsed with veins of silver and gold light, like the circulatory system of some sleeping giant. And in the center of it all, a figure burned.

Silver fire, guttering low but still defiant, wrapped around a woman.

Lucy.

Althea’s breath caught. She was thinner than the portrait, gaunt with exhaustion, her silver hair tangled and dull. But her eyes—those eyes—were open, and they were looking right at her.

"Took you long enough, little brother."

Her voice was rough, like she hadn’t used it in years. But there was warmth in it. And relief.

Lucian moved toward her, but his steps slowed as his gaze swept the cavern.

Althea followed his line of sight.

A man stood a short distance from Lucy, braced like he’d been holding a line for too long. Broad-shouldered, dark hair streaked with grey at the temples, a face that looked like it had been carved from stone and then weathered by a thousand storms. His eyes, when they flicked to Lucian, were the same as Lucy’s. As Althea’s.

Marc.

He didn’t speak. He just nodded once, a slight tilt of his head that said everything and nothing. You’re here. Good. Stay alert.

Beyond him, another figure moved with fluid grace, striking at something Althea couldn’t quite see. Silas. His movements were precise, economical, each strike landing against an invisible foe. He looked tired too, but he wasn’t stopping.

Lucian’s eyes searched the cavern. Where were the others? Evelyn? Vyn? Reia?

Before he could ask, the air in front of them twisted.

A shape emerged from nothing. It was man-shaped, roughly, but wrong in every way that mattered. Its proportions shifted as she looked at it, its surface reflecting light that wasn’t there. It had a face, but the features moved independently, eyes sliding across its skin, mouth opening in places mouths shouldn’t be.

It smiled at them with a dozen lips.

"More," it said, its voice a chorus of discordant notes. "More souls for the feast."

Lucian tensed, stepping forward—

A wall of golden light slammed down between them and the creature.

Alistair stood there.

Not a phantom this time. Solid. Real. His back was to them, facing the twisting horror, and his form was flickering at the edges, like a flame fighting against a wind. He was older than his projection, more worn. But the set of his shoulders was the same.

"Hello, son," he said, not turning. His voice was steady, despite the strain. "Pleased to meet you once again."

The creature laughed, a sound that made Althea’s teeth ache. "The Maker. Still standing. Still pretending you can hold us back."

Alistair didn’t respond. He just raised his hand, and the golden light intensified, pushing the creature back a step.

Lucian stared at his father’s back, a thousand emotions flickering across his face too fast to name. Then he looked past him, at the thing they were fighting.

One of the Outer Gods.

Just one.

And it was taking all of them to hold it.

Marc’s arm was bleeding, a dark stain spreading through his sleeve. Lucy’s silver flame was barely a candle compared to what it should be. Silas was still moving, still fighting, but his strikes were slowing.

Althea understood in that moment. They weren’t winning. They were surviving. Barely.

The creature surged forward again, and Alistair’s light flickered dangerously. He grunted, a sound of pure effort.

"Lucy," Alistair called out, strain cracking his voice. "The seal. Now."

Lucy’s eyes, which had been fixed on Althea, snapped to the creature. She raised her hand, and her silver fire leaped toward the golden barrier, merging with it, reinforcing it.

Marc moved to her side, placing his palm against her back. His own power, a deep, grounding energy, flowed into her.

Silas abandoned his assault and dropped into a defensive stance in front of them all, his body coiled, ready to intercept anything that broke through.

It was a formation. A practiced, desperate team effort.

And it still wasn’t enough.

The creature pushed forward, its form expanding, writhing. The barrier began to crack.

Alistair’s knees buckled slightly. "Lucian," he said, his voice tight. "The keystone. Touch the—"

"No."

Lucian’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Everyone froze. Even the creature hesitated, its many eyes swiveling to fix on him.

Lucian stepped past his father. Past Silas. He walked toward the barrier, toward the thing on the other side.

"What are you doing?" Lucy’s voice was sharp with fear. "Lucian, get back!"

He ignored her.

He stopped an inch from the golden light. On the other side, the creature leaned in, its shifting face pressing close, curiosity and hunger mingling in its expression.

"Another one," it breathed. "So much power. So much flavor."

Lucian looked at it. His expression was calm. Almost bored.

"You know," he said quietly, "I’ve been asleep for a really long time."

The creature tilted its head, confused by the non sequitur.

Lucian rolled his shoulders, a simple, human gesture. Then he looked back at his family—at Lucy, exhausted and afraid; at Marc, grim and bleeding; at Silas, still standing guard; at his father, on his knees but unbroken.

"You all look tired," he said. "Step back."

Lucy’s eyes widened. "Lucian, you don’t understand—"

"I understand perfectly." He turned back to the creature. "It’s been a while since I stretched. These new bodies are stiff."

The creature laughed again, louder this time. "You think to face me alone? I have fed on universes older than—"

"Yeah, yeah." Lucian waved a hand dismissively. "I’ve heard the speech before. From things a lot scarier than you."

He glanced at Alistair. "Drop the barrier."

Alistair stared at him, conflict raging in his ancient eyes. "If I drop it—"

"Then I handle it." Lucian’s voice was flat. Certain. "Drop it."