The final three Soul Shards of the vile, thieving bird-spawn were in his hands once more.
They pulsed faintly in his grasp—small things, deceptively delicate, but steeped in a silent, hungry pressure. The kind of pressure that came from death and theft and suffering. Sunless stared down at them, his expression unreadable, though something in the hard line of his jaw betrayed a lingering bitterness.
He had hidden them long ago, concealed deep within one of the few places in the Dark City that even he did not fully understand—the old Cathedral. The one crowned by broken spires and devoured by silence. The one guarded by the black knight whose steel form had not rusted with time, nor crumbled with disuse. At dawn, the Cathedral would shimmer ever so faintly, touched by the palest hue of gold—a weak, ephemeral glimmer, like the last echo of something divine. A ghost of holiness in a city that no longer remembered the word.
That glow had always unsettled him. Not because it frightened him, but because it whispered of something ancient beneath the stone. Something watching. Something waiting.
One day, he would return to uncover its secret. That much he was sure of.
But not today.
Today, he had work to do.
Plans to finish. Power to claim. Roots to deepen.
He could no longer afford to delay. Not after what had happened.
Sunless still remembered the moment when the false confidence had cracked—the second he realized just how mortal he truly was. How vulnerable. The near-death experience had peeled back the illusion, and with it, the last of his complacency. It had been his own arrogance that nearly killed him.
When he'd gained his second Shadow Core, and with Serpent , he had grown bold. Too bold. The knowledge that he stood among the most powerful Sleepers in the Dream Realm had crept into his mind like rot. It had given him an edge—yes—but also a blind spot.
And that blind spot had nearly destroyed him.
Half the Forgotten Shore had died. Screaming, burning, torn apart by mimic nightmares that wore the skins of friends and lovers. It had been carnage—and a brutal reminder that no stronghold, no haven, no matter how prepared or fortified, was truly safe in the Dream Realm.
The dream realm did not reward pride.
It punished it.
That was why he needed to flee.
Abandon the Forgotten Shore before its name became his tombstone.
Because survival here wasn't just about strength—it was about foresight. About restraint.
About knowing when to let go.
He couldn't afford to be greedy anymore. The Soul Shards might have been worth more than gold if brought back to Earth—Assuming a Sleeper even could carry such things across the veil, in to the waking world.
But those possibilities were too far. Too faint. He wouldn't gamble on 'maybe' anymore.
He would use them now.
Feed Two of them to the [Soul-Devouring Tree].
And if the tree bore fruit—those twisted, beautiful soul-fruits heavy with essence—then perhaps he could use them to form a third Shadow Core. Perhaps even a fourth. He didn't know what lay beyond that threshold after all. No one did. But he knew it would be power. Power enough to tip the balance.
That was why he was returning to the tree. That was why the Soul Shards, trembling in his palm like the hearts of dying stars, would not be saved.
They would be devoured.
The [Soul-Devouring Tree] stood like a monument to suffering in the heart of the ruined city, a vast, gnarled behemoth of blackened bark and blood-slick roots. Its branches groaned with unseen weight, dripping strands of blood and ash, and the soil beneath it had long since stopped pretending to be natural. Bones rested under the roots. The wind moaned in tongues.
And yet, it lived.
More than that—it thrived.
Over a hundred Fallen creatures now served it. A chittering, slinking, monstrous army born from the worst corners of the Forgotten Shore , enthralled by the tree's malignant influence. Their minds were drowned in its song, their wills bent to its keeper's command.
That was why Sunless paused when he saw human figures gathered near the tree.
People. Two dozen of them, maybe more. Standing there like they belonged.
At first, he thought they were real. Then he realized the truth.
Mimics.
No—not quite. Corpses. Vessels.
The bodies were wrong. Still. Hollow. Their limbs twisted just slightly off, as though they remembered the idea of movement but had forgotten how to live. Their skin was dry, flaking. Their faces expressionless. Puppets.
He saw the culprit almost immediately.
A Fallen. One he remembered well.
A swarm. A hive of insects. They burrowed into corpses, devoured the rot, and then filled the hollowed flesh like wet sand in a mold. Then they walked the bodies like marionettes. Turned the dead into soldiers.
The first time Sunless had seen it, he had nearly destroyed the creature on sight. Disgust, revulsion, even fear had flared in him. But at the time, he hadn't acted. The Tree had still been weak, and his command had been clear: enthrall what could be bound, and destroy what resisted.
The parasite swarm was efficient. Useful. Too useful to waste.
But that was then.
Now… now he had the luxury of preference.
He would burn it soon. Rid his domain of crawling things.
But first, he climbed.
The bark of the Tree was warm beneath his fingers—breathing, almost. He moved silently, intent on reaching a higher branch, when a voice split the air below.
"Stop! Halt!"
Another followed, shriller. "Yah, or we'll shoot!"
Sunless froze, one hand resting on a knotted outgrowth.
His first reaction wasn't fear. It was sheer disbelief.
They weren't dead. They weren't mimics. They were real people.
Humans.
Standing at the base of the [Soul-Devouring Tree].
And they had the audacity to threaten him?
On his tree?
The offense was so absurd it left him momentarily stunned.
Then, with a small mental command, he beckoned the Fallen.
Within moments, the forest stirred.
Twisted shadows peeled away from the tree's roots. Monstrous silhouettes slithered, stomped, and crawled into view. The humans saw them—and screamed. The arrogance vanished instantly, replaced by pure, undiluted terror.
When Sunless looked down next, twenty people knelt in a ring, surrounded by monsters.
And they were sobbing.
"Please, your grace! Mercy, mercy!"
"We didn't know it was yours!"
"Please don't eat us!"
Their words spilled between sobs, gasps, and snot-choked hysteria. Some clutched each other. One even tried to kiss the dirt. Sunless watched it all without a word, arms crossed atop a high branch.
Eventually, the story came out.
During the chaos of the mimic invasion—when the Bright Castle had fallen and the Slums drowned in horror—one man, a Sleeper named Night, had gathered these civilians and led them out. Somehow, they'd wandered here.
Apparently, the mimics avoided the Tree's presence. Just as they avoided Alice's Mist. Both disturbed their psychic camouflage. That alone had saved these people.
It had taken time, but Sunless had eventually organized an escort. The Fallen guided the refugees back to the Bright Castle—though not without several terrified fits along the way.
He'd even sent a message to this 'Night,' promising a reward for his unexpected rescue effort.
It was a political move, of course. Pure performance.
Sunless was no longer a nameless specter in the Dream. He was one of Gunlaug's generals now. Their actions would be scrutinized—especially in the waking world.
If the Sleepers ever returned, they would not return as civilians.
They would return as symbols.
That meant he needed to reshape his image. Not a tyrant. Not a monster. But a just ruler. Cold, yes—but measured. Strategic. Even merciful, if it served a purpose.
That was why he had sent word.
That was why he had offered a reward.
Night never came.
But it didn't matter.
The message had already been sent. The mask already molded.
'*'*'*
For four long months, the man named *Night* did not come to collect the reward that had been promised.
Sunless remembered issuing the order well—his voice quiet and even, issuing from the heights of the [Soul-devouring Tree] as he gazed down at the weeping refugees who had, unknowingly, trespassed into what had become one of the most sacred strongholds in the Dream Realm. He'd spared them, not out of kindness, but as a calculated gesture. A political move. A symbol of justice, distant and cold. Something to shift the image of the Duke of the Dark City—less tyrant, more warden. Less monster, more myth.
But Night had not come. Not for the soul shards and memories, nor favor, nor even for recognition.
The silence stretched across weeks, then months. And while the man never appeared, the world did not sit idle.
In that span of four months, Sunless had grown stronger.
The [Soul-devouring Tree] had fed well. Not just on Memories and Nightmares creatures , but on something purer—soul shards. *just* soul shards. A revelation made when Sunless, driven by necessity and spurred by desperation, had fed the last of the thieving birdspawn's remnants into the tree's ever-hungry roots. What he witnessed defied the expected.
the Tree had... changed.
Not in a blinding flash or thunderous upheaval—but with the slow certainty of a predator molting into something larger, darker, more ancient.
Where once it had been classified as a *Terror*, it now stood as a full-fledged *Titan*. The difference wasn't just in classification—it was in presence, in weight, in the eerie stillness that preceded its movements. Crimson and shadowy spores drifted now from its boughs, staining the air around it with motes of darkness and blood. These spores clung to nearby ground and flesh alike, allowing the Tree to extend its reach, its awareness, and its power far beyond its roots. It could touch its foes through them—snare them, crush them, feed on them.
It had evolved.
Sunless had quietly watched its metamorphosis, noting every detail, every subtle difference. Even when the Tree's essence shifted from that of an *Echo* to a full *Shadow*, its form barely changed—just a shade darker, a little smokier, as if something enormous now coiled behind the bark, breathing slowly in the gloom.
The [Bramblewitch] attribute—it had to be the key. That rare and eldritch trait which warped the rules around it, allowing the Tree to feast on something far deeper than Memory. The very soul it self.
But power did not come quietly.
The Crimson Terror—the ancient, wrathful entity that ruled over the cursed dominion of the forgotten shore with light and red corral—had *noticed*.
And it had not approved.
In the weeks following the Tree's transformation, hordes of Cursed Heralds had descended like a biblical plague. Winged and crawling, howling and writhing, they came in tides. Monsters of the fallen rank. Nightmares soaked in hate. Every day brought a new assault, every night a desperate defense.
It had been a brutal trial of attrition, a siege against the very roots of his power. And yet... Sunless had endured. More than that—he had *thrived*. The Tree grew stronger. The Fallen grew smarter. And he—Sunless—reaped Memory after Memory.
From the fallen corpses of the Heralds, he had claimed his newest prize: [Nevermore's Embrace].
At a glance, it had seemed pure vanity.
A long cloak of black wool, floor-length and dramatic. It swallowed light. Rimmed with feathers—oil-slick black and tinged with emerald sheen, like the plumage of a raven caught at dusk. A garment meant for theater. For legends. The kind worn by someone who didn't fear being seen, because *being seen* was the point.
But the illusion didn't last long.
The cloak moved wrong for wool. The shoulders were rigid beneath the fall of feather and fabric—reinforced. Layered. He had discovered, hidden in the hem and spine, carefully sewn panels of boiled leather and silk. Not enough to stop a warhammer—but more than enough to turn aside a blade. The interior lining was built for silence—soft black hide that muffled movement, that cloaked the breath of one who hunted in shadows.
Even the shirt beneath—a lavish, embroidered piece that would have looked at home in the courts of kings—had a backing of fine leather. Flexible, breathable. A dancer's armor. Lethal, and unseen.
But most valuable of all was the enchantment laced into the garment's weave.
It had less enchantments than the [mantle of the underworld ] and no growth capacity.
But when he poured Essence into it—it pulsed with strength. It wasn't subtle. The surge that followed made him move like something barely human, strength blooming in his limbs until he could match the raw brutality of a Cursed Herald.
That, he thought, was *useful*.
Still, despite all the battles, despite all the changes—his only regular companions had been Harus, and the ever-growing number of 'volunteers' serving under the Penitence Legion.
The term *volunteer* was, of course, a lie. A bureaucratic gloss.
There were two doors into the Legion. The first was open—a punishment now offered by the Golden Serpent for those found guilty of certain crimes. A choice between death or absolution through service. Few returned from the latter.
The second door was hidden in shadows and sealed in silence. These were the cases no one wanted seen—past offenses swept under the rug, ignored for the sake of power or convenience. With Sunless's growing influence, such stains had become tools.
They were not dragged into his orbit directly. Instead, subtle traps were laid. Guilt planted. Opportunity created. The [Soul-devouring Tree] itself was a net—and once the accused came too close, once they crossed the unseen line, they found themselves within *his* grasp.
A castle guard had been the latest example.
Caught extorting Memories—and worse—from the vulnerable women in the Bright Castle's lower quarters. It had taken little effort for Harus to nudge him toward disgrace. Another soul offered to the Legion.
But this time, there had been a complication.
Harus came to him late one evening, the candlelight dancing across his sharp features, voice low and grim. There had been an incident—something ugly. A group of thugs had kidnapped a dancer from Alice's Bordel.
The tone in Harus's voice had been clipped, careful—but beneath it, Sunless could feel the tension. Not fear. Not concern. Something that didn't fit his usual tone.
**The message was to be written in blood.**
Harus had delivered it flatly, without flourish. No emotion. No debate. Just those six words:
**"Alice wants a message sent. This time in blood."**
And that, more than anything, told Sunless how serious the matter had become.
He hadn't asked for the dancer's name. He didn't need to. The implication was enough. Someone in the Caste Guard—some fool with a badge and a hunger for coin—had crossed a line. Alice was not always subtle in her retribution, but she rarely requested something like this. For her to ask now meant the offender had done more than offend her pride.
So Sunless didn't delay.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't dig for details. He simply stepped into the quiet dark of the outer tunnels, where the stink of mold and rusted blood clung to the stone like rot, and began the hunt.
The prey made it easy.
Six of them. Trailing through the lower quarter like drunken wolves in a city of ghosts, laughing too loudly, talking too loosely. One of them even carried a glowing crystal—held high in a thick, ring-laden hand like some idiot torch—illuminating the shabby mess of dented armor and a beard that looked more like mildew than man.
Bottom-feeders. Enforcers for someone else's game. The kind of thugs who thought violence made them powerful, because they'd never met something worse.
Sunless didn't strike immediately.
He followed.
Watched.
Listened.
Saint lingered in the shadows nearby, silent as breath. The paladin's vast silhouette was a quiet promise of what was to come. She did not speak, and Sunless did not ask her to. They both knew what this was. A message—not just for the men in front of them, but for anyone who might think the rules had softened.
They hadn't.
Not since the Duke took hold of the dark city.
They followed the guards to a side alley where the stone walls bled heat from sewer vents. The stink of boiled mushrooms and cheap ale curled in the air. That was where the thugs slowed. Joked. Whispered, thinking they were safe.
"Boss, you sure about this?" one of the younger ones muttered, shifting uneasily. "I mean… you must've noticed. Gunlaug's not exactly fond of our side hustle."
The man at the front—thicker than the others, with a bastard's grin and scuffed pauldrons—snorted without turning around.
"Shut up, you fucking idiot. That's just some stunt. Gunlaug's bluffing. Ever since that pretty little cunt Changing Star started making waves, he's been trying to save face."
He gestured lazily behind him. "Now he's putting on a show to keep the crowds tame. That's all."
"Oh, I don't think so," said a voice behind them.
Cold. Smooth. Low enough to make the speaker's presence feel sudden and inevitable.
The boss turned—too late.
Sunless was already there.
And the moment he moved, it was over.
With the amplified strength of the [Nevermore's Embrace], his hands flashed out—grabbing the last two men in the line by their necks. One in each fist. Their spines cracked with a wet, ragged sound, like breaking green wood. They didn't even scream—just sagged limply in his grip as he let their bodies fall to the mossy stone.
The others froze.
And then Saint was among them.
No battle cry. No warning. Just a flash of motion—a white blur in the dim.
Her greatsword arced low, sweeping through flesh and tendon. The three nearest men collapsed, shrieking, as their legs were sheared from beneath them. The alley filled with the stench of blood, hot and sudden, as it hit the stone in splashing gouts.
Only the boss was left untouched.
He stared at Sunless—eyes wide, white showing all around the irises—as if finally realizing who stood before him.
"You… you're—" he choked.
Sunless didn't speak. He stepped forward.
The others were screaming now—those who still had the lungs to scream. The wounded writhed in the muck, hands pressed uselessly to stumps, red seeping between fingers in pulsing bursts.
Sunless didn't flinch.
He walked past them, deliberate and unhurried, until he stood inches from the boss.
"Your Memories," he said calmly, voice cold and steady. "Hand them over. You may yet live."
The three legless ones howled, but one by one, desperate, they complied. Fumbling, bleeding, they reached for the bindings of thought and pain that clung to their shattered minds. Frantic hands offered fragments—raw, unfiltered. One of them was crying.
Sunless accepted the gifts without comment. He had no intention of letting them live. But desperation made men useful, and every shard fed Saint's ascent. She lingered behind him now, her armor glinting faintly, her sword still red with ruin. Silent. Watching.
The boss, to his credit, didn't beg.
He ran.
Sloppy, stupid—he nearly made it three steps before Sunless raised one gloved hand.
The [Prowling Thorn] hissed through the air—a dagger on an invisible leash. It buried itself in the man's left knee with a wet crunch.
He went down hard.
Didn't scream—yet—but he gasped. Scrabbled at the dirt. Crawled.
Sunless walked after him.
Slow.
Measured.
The kind of walk that said he didn't need to run. That said, *you'll never get away.*
The man dragged himself forward, leaving a trail. Breath heaving. Mouthing some prayer to a god who didn't live here anymore.
Sunless stopped behind him. Let the quiet stretch out like wire.
Then:
"Your Memories," he said again, level and cold. "Hand them over."
The man did, after losing a few fingers. Screaming now.
Sunless took what was offered, then turned away.
He circled back to the two with shattered spines—still barely conscious. Bleeding out. Their eyes met his, dazed and wet.
"You," he said simply.
They didn't resist.
And when he was done, he stood in the center of that alley—blood rising to his boots, steam curling in the damp air—and said nothing.
The message had been sent.
That's how he got it—an old map, curled and cracked, marked with a red X near the edge of the forgotten canals.
A treasure map, they called it. But its ink reeked of something ancient, something fouler than mere gold.
A map to a well. A *very* specific well.