Liam's jaw clenched slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. His hand didn't tremble. His breathing didn't shift. But his eyes—the stillness in them sharpened, focused entirely on the woman behind Sylvathar. She was the key. If he wanted even the slightest chance to collapse the veil and escape, she had to be disrupted—injured, weakened, or, ideally, taken out.
But that was easier said than done.
Sylvathar, meanwhile, hadn't moved a muscle. He watched both of them with the patience of a god observing ants attempt to escape a sealed jar. The only difference was, this god wasn't angry—just mildly entertained.
"You two are impressive," Sylvathar said with a low chuckle, turning slightly as if admiring the hall itself. "The speed of your reactions. The awareness. Most wouldn't have understood they were trapped until their limbs were severed. But you two… hmm, you're quite something."
Liam said nothing. Neither did Mabel. They stood like statues, but their minds—especially Liam's—were working overdrive.
Sylvathar turned back to them with a soft exhale. "But I didn't come here to kill you. If I wanted that, you would already be dead. I came… to talk."
"Talk?" Mabel's voice broke the silence, low and sharp. "By trapping us inside a veil?"
Sylvathar smiled again, this time more amused than before. "Would you have stayed calm if I knocked on the front door and asked politely to borrow a few minutes of your time?"
"I thought not," he said lightly. "Still, with the way you greeted me, it's clear we won't get far here. And I'm not interested in entertaining guests if more humans arrive. So… let's go somewhere more private. Wouldn't you agree?"
Liam and Mabel's eyes narrowed in unison, bracing themselves for what was coming.
"Morenelle," Sylvathar called, glancing to the woman behind him.
Without a word, her eyes glowed a vibrant green—and in an instant, the world shifted around Liam and Mabel. The training hall vanished.
They now stood in the heart of a vast, verdant expanse. Lush green stretched for miles, covered in wildflowers, tall trees swaying gently under a soft breeze. It was a beautiful sight—too beautiful. Suspiciously perfect. Like something painted by nature's most patient hand.
But the unease in Liam and Mabel only deepened.
They scanned their surroundings, senses on high alert. And standing just a short distance away, in the same spot they had occupied moments ago, were Sylvathar and Morenelle—serene and untouched by the transition.
"Lovely, isn't it?" Sylvathar said, his voice almost wistful. "It took me five long years to gather the strength necessary to breathe life back into this place. Reclaiming the soil of a land stripped bare by centuries of war… not an easy task, I assure you."
The moment he said it, Liam and Mabel knew exactly where they were.
A realization that sent a cold ripple through both of them. They were no longer near the Tempest Kingdom. They were deep in one of the most desolate—and dangerous—zones on the continent, now reborn under Sylvathar's command.
And yet, for all that horror, Liam didn't flinch. He didn't look surprised or worried.
Because this only confirmed what he already suspected.
He had been right. Sylvathar did have a sanctuary hidden in the Land of Ruins.
Mabel turned slightly, studying Liam's face. She was searching for some tell, some flicker of reaction now that his theory had proven true. But as always, there was nothing. Just that same detached focus.
For once, Mabel was thankful for it.
Because right now, the last thing they could afford… was Liam losing his calm.
Sylvathar began to walk with a slow, deliberate ease, each step making the grass shift and bow beneath his feet as though the land itself acknowledged his dominion. There was no menace in his stride—only the effortless gravity of someone who no longer needed to assert power. He didn't simply own this place. He was it. The entire land seemed to breathe in sync with his presence, saturated in his myst.
"Now… about the little talk I mentioned earlier," he said as he walked in a gentle arc around them, his hands clasped behind his back, voice casual like he was hosting guests in his garden. "Well… it's more like a deal," he added with a soft murmur, letting silence follow in its wake.
"And what's this deal about?" Liam asked, his voice steady, calm. His tone gave nothing away.
Sylvathar came to a stop, slowly pivoting to face them again. "Since you ask, young one," he replied, his voice adopting that signature evenness that bordered on chilling, "it's about you."
Liam didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He had expected this—ever since that night during the sweep with Galen, the ambush by Mourne, and the revelations that followed, he had known. It was only a matter of time before he found himself on the same level of importance as Princess Sheila.
"I'm listening," he said evenly, eyes fixed on the demon lord.
"You're much calmer than I anticipated," Sylvathar observed, tilting his head slightly, studying Liam like one would a puzzle just beginning to make sense. "No outrage, no resistance. Interesting."
Then his gaze sharpened. "What I want is quite simple. You, young human, are the last wielder of dark magic. But more than that, there's an ancient power buried deep inside you—something raw, untapped, and older than most can comprehend. And that… is what I want."
"You say that like Sheila's divine light wasn't enough for you," Liam said, his voice like cut stone.
Sylvathar scoffed, a faint smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. "You're not wrong. I had to accelerate the process, cut it short—my plans couldn't afford a slow harvest. But I did take in enough of the divine light to satisfy a portion of my needs."
His gaze darkened slightly. "Still… the power you carry would fulfill me more than any amount of divine light ever could. Even a mere fragment of it."
Silence hung in the air like a loaded weapon.
Liam processed the words carefully. Sylvathar hadn't mentioned Sheila's death—he spoke of her power as something already taken in part. Which meant, unless this was a ploy, there was a high possibility she was still alive.
"Alright," Liam said slowly. "Say I agree to surrender myself. Let you take what you want. What do I get in return?"
Mabel turned sharply to look at him, eyes narrowing with a flicker of shock behind her mask. Her expression was unreadable, but the tight line of her posture spoke volumes. She had come to similar conclusions as Liam—that Sheila might still be alive—but she wasn't ready to throw Liam's life on the altar of that uncertainty. He was the one she was assigned to protect. And even if she hadn't been, she wouldn't let him make such a trade.
But she said nothing. Not yet. She waited to hear Sylvathar's answer.
The demon lord's smirk widened ever so slightly at Liam's question. Without speaking, he turned his head and gave a single, subtle nod to Morenelle.
The statuesque woman returned the gesture—and in the next instant, a figure shimmered into existence behind Sylvathar.
Her body was upright, suspended in the air like a doll on invisible threads. She looked deathly pale, lips cracked and colorless, eyes shut. Faint dark circles bruised the skin beneath her lids. Her breathing was shallow, chest barely rising. There was no doubt she was alive—but she was hanging by a thread.
Mabel's eyes widened visibly. Even with most of her face concealed, the shock and disbelief were unmistakable. She had not expected this. Not to see Sheila. Not .
Liam, on the other hand, barely reacted. His crimson eyes studied the Crescent Princess's condition without a flicker of emotion.
"First of all… what makes you think I'd give up my life for her?"
Sylvathar's amusement didn't waver. In fact, it deepened. "Of course that's what you'd say. It's in your nature, after all. Self-preservation. All dark wielders are branded the same—selfish, soulless. The world fears you. Hates you. And so, your identity remains a secret, even in the kingdom that now shelters you."
His voice softened, but there was a cold truth laced beneath the surface. "But… here's your chance to change that. To prove them wrong. To show them you're not just a tool of destruction, but a being capable of sacrifice—of redemption."
"I'm not going to kill you," he continued. "I only need to extract a piece of what lies within you. Something you have no mastery over, no comprehension of. Give it willingly… and this fragile girl gets to go home. Back to her parents. Back to the world that loves her. She lives, and the people hear of her savior—a boy shrouded in shadows who chose light when it mattered most."
Sylvathar's eyes glimmered faintly, the faint green of his myst reflecting in the air like mirrored embers.
"Isn't that what your kind would've wanted? A chance to be remembered for something more?"
His voice dropped to a whisper that carried like thunder.
"This is your moment, young one. Your chance… to redeem yourself."