Kaelan's attention narrows, focusing on the section of the projection that shows Clive.
The screen has split into nine separate views at Kaelan's command, each one tracking a member of the Royal Griffon Kingdom's forces who entered the castle. The Puppet House does not welcome intruders evenly. Traps, illusion layers, and shifting arrays have already separated them. Some figures now wander alone through distorted corridors, while others move in pairs or small groups, unaware that their proximity is temporary and deliberate.
Clive is alone.
Ahead of him stretches a river of magma.
The molten flow glows a deep, violent orange, thick currents rolling slowly beneath a crust that breaks and reforms with dull, bubbling sounds. Heat radiates outward in waves, warping the air. Across the river, irregular stone steps rise just above the magma's surface, forming a narrow, winding path to the opposite side.
Bishop Zane stares at the screen, his composure cracking.
His eyes widen as realisation hits him.
Kaelan is not merely observing the interior of the castle. He is seeing everything. Every separation. Every illusion. Every movement.
"Lord Kaelan," Zane asks, voice strained, "how is this possible?"
Alarm spikes through him.
If Kaelan can see inside the castle so clearly, then the possibility—however remote—that Kaelan himself is involved in the kidnappings cannot be ignored. Zane's mind races instantly, calculating lines of distance, deniability, and severance. If the Sand Temple's Lord is implicated, even indirectly, the damage to the faith would be immeasurable.
He already begun considering how to cut any connection between Kaelan and the case. How to inform headquarters discreetly. How to warn—no, protect—the Lord, if necessary.
Right and wrong do not matter to him in this moment.
The children do not matter.
Only the Temple does.
Kaelan glances at him.
Just once.
That single look is enough.
As managers of the faith, bishops draw power from Kaelan's authority. They rise in position, grow closer to him, their thoughts becoming transparent whether they realise it or not. If Kaelan wished, he could turn any of them into a clone of his will.
He sees Zane's fear.
His calculation.
His indifference.
A faint ripple of disappointment passes through Kaelan's mind.
He speaks calmly, his tone measured, intended to settle rather than confront.
"The Lord refines the Doll House," Kaelan says. "If the Church of Disaster is using it now, then its ultimate control remains in our Lord's hands."
Bishop Zane exhales deeply, tension draining from his shoulders in a visible wave.
Relief replaces suspicion.
Kaelan turns his attention back to the screen.
Clive takes his first step onto the stone path.
He jumps lightly from one stone to the next, boots landing precisely. None of the stones sinks. No crack. The magma below churns, close enough that heat licks at his legs, but the path holds.
Clive does not know how he knows which stone is safe.
He simply does.
Some instinct deeper than thought guides him, nudging his feet away from danger without explanation. He does not question it. He keeps moving.
Step by step, he crosses the river.
When his boots touch solid ground again, the heat eases slightly. He straightens and looks ahead.
A desert stretches before him.
Endless dunes roll toward the horizon, pale and uniform beneath a sky bleached of colour. There is no wind. No landmarks. No sense of distance. The magma river lies behind him, glowing faintly, a stark contrast to the barren expanse ahead.
Clive's jaw tightens.
With fire behind and desert ahead, there is no doubt left in his mind.
This is an illusion.
He closes his eyes briefly and channels the power of his spirit life into them, focusing, sharpening his perception, trying to peel back the layers of falsehood.
When he opens his eyes again, nothing changes.
The desert remains.
The magma river still burns behind him.
He frowns.
Whatever illusion this is, it does not yield to simple spiritual perception.
Breaking it directly is beyond him.
So he walks.
The sand shifts beneath his boots, each step sinking slightly, offering just enough resistance to make progress exhausting. Time stretches strangely here. Minutes blur into hours without a clear transition. The sun—or whatever passes for it in this space—does not move, yet heat presses down relentlessly.
Sweat beads on his forehead.
His throat dries.
Eventually, thirst claws at him, sharp and insistent. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and his breaths grow shallow. He presses on, forcing his legs to keep moving.
Then hunger joins the assault.
A dull ache spreads through his stomach, deepening with every step. His pace slows. His shoulders sag. The desert does not change, does not respond, does not end.
Just as his vision begins to blur and his knees threaten to buckle, something shifts.
Energy flows into him.
It is sudden but gentle, seeping into his limbs, spreading warmth through his muscles and clarity through his mind. Fatigue recedes. Thirst dulls. Hunger fades into the background.
Clive straightens, breathing hard.
Confusion flickers across his face.
He looks around, searching for the source.
Nothing.
No sound. No light. No visible change.
The energy simply is.
He shakes his head once.
"Let's get out of here," he mutters. "Then I can figure out why."
He resumes walking.
The cycle repeats.
Time stretches. Heat presses down. Fatigue builds slowly, inevitably. Thirst returns. Hunger gnaws. His steps grow heavier, his breathing rougher.
Then, just before collapse—
Energy again.
Restoration.
Clarity.
Strength.
Over and over.
The desert remains endless, unchanging, indifferent.
Clive keeps walking, caught in the same cycle of exhaustion and renewal, his footsteps sinking into sand that never varies, never responds. Time loses meaning. He no longer measures distance or direction, only motion. One step, then another.
He does not notice the change at first.
The resistance beneath his boots hardens. The subtle give of sand vanishes, replaced by something solid and uneven. He continues forward automatically, thoughts dulled by repetition, until a tremor runs through the ground.
Clive stops.
The shaking grows stronger, vibrating up through his legs. He looks down, then around, bewilderment cutting through the haze. When he turns back, his breath catches.
The desert is gone.
Behind him lies nothing but broken, rocky terrain, jagged and dark, stretching only a short distance before collapsing into emptiness. The illusion has peeled away without warning, replaced by something far more violent.
He has no time to process it.
Cracks tear open in the ground with sharp, explosive sounds. The earth splits apart in branching fractures, racing toward him at terrifying speed. Dust and shards leap into the air as the ground begins to cave inward.
"What is going on?" he gasps.
The answer does not come.
The ground collapses.
Clive curses and breaks into a sprint.
His boots pound against the stone as he runs forward, lungs burning. The terrain becomes treacherous in seconds. Rifts open abruptly in front of him, forcing him to leap without hesitation. Rocks tear free from the ground and rise into the air, drifting just long enough to block his path before slamming back down.
He vaults over a widening fissure, lands hard, and keeps running.
A slab of stone lifts directly ahead.
He swerves, skidding across loose gravel, then launches himself forward as the slab crashes down where he would have been. Another rift splits open behind him, swallowing chunks of earth whole.
Despite the chaos, something feels… different.
Clive realises it mid-stride.
He is faster.
His legs drive him forward with more force than before. His jumps carry him farther. His reactions are sharper, cleaner. He clears obstacles he knows would have stopped him moments earlier.
Confusion flashes through him.
His strength should not have increased this quickly.
There was no cultivation. No breakthrough. No conscious refinement.
That alone confirms it.
This is still an illusion.
The realisation steadies him.
He sprints harder, trusting his body, weaving through the destruction as the ground collapses behind him. Ahead, the rocky terrain narrows, forcing him toward a final gap.
A massive rift yawns open.
Clive gathers himself and jumps.
For a heartbeat, he is weightless.
Then he lands hard on a tiled platform, rolling instinctively to absorb the impact. Stone scrapes against his coat as he tumbles, then he plants his hands and feet and pushes himself upright.
He stays crouched, breathing heavily.
His chest rises and falls in sharp pulls as he drags air back into his lungs. Sweat beads on his brow, but his muscles do not tremble the way he expects them to.
He turns and looks back.
Where the rocky ground once was, there is now only an abyss. A vast, lightless void stretches downward, so deep that no bottom can be seen. The edges crumble slowly, bits of stone breaking away and vanishing into nothing.
"When will the illusion end?" he mutters.
He straightens and looks ahead.
The tiled ground stretches forward without a visible end. Large stone tiles form a wide path, cracked and scarred by ancient damage. On both sides stand statues—dozens of them—some shattered, others intact, all bearing marks of battle.
Each statue depicts a knight.
They are carved in rigid poses, cloaks frozen in stone, both hands gripping massive stone swords planted tip-down into the tiles. The weapons are oversized, heavy even in appearance, their edges chipped and worn.
Clive starts walking.
His footsteps echo faintly as he passes between the statues. The silence here is oppressive, broken only by the sound of his own movement.
As he draws level with one statue, something feels wrong.
A shadow shifts.
Clive reacts on instinct.
He dives forward just as a massive stone sword swings down behind him, cleaving through the air with brutal force. The blade slams into the tile where he stood a moment before, stone exploding outward in sharp fragments.
He rolls, comes up on one knee, heart pounding.
The statue behind him has moved.
And others are beginning to stir.