The barrier wavered. It waned and shuddered then suddenly the unthinkable happened.
It was no longer a subtle, flickering curtain at the edge of perception—it was retracting. Actively pulling back like a wounded animal retreating from the jaws of a predator. Ludwig noticed it first, the thin glimmer of arcane light that once kept the Reavers at bay now sputtering like a candle caught in a storm.
A ripple coursed through it, then another. Then it began to retract.
“I think,” Ludwig said, voice even and quiet, “I’ll have to insist on inviting you inside.”
The adventurers hadn’t noticed it yet. Not fully. Their eyes remained fixed on Ludwig, still uncertain whether to accept his hospitality or keep their distance. But Ludwig’s tone carried a weight that caused their postures to shift ever so slightly—Timur’s knuckles tightened around his blades, Gorak’s gaze narrowed, and even Melisande looked more alert than before.
“Like we said before, Sir Davon,” Timur replied with that same cautious edge in his voice, “we’ll have to decline.”
But his voice lacked the firmness from earlier. It had softened—tinged with doubt, with a rising tension that even he couldn’t ignore. His grip on his weapon betrayed him; it tightened, but not with resolve. With uncertainty.
Ludwig didn’t press. He simply raised his hand and gestured behind them.
“Well then,” he said calmly, “I can assure you… I’m still a better host than those guys.”
And then they turned.
The change in their expressions was almost comical, if not for the fear that followed.
“Shit on a stick!” Timur cursed, his voice cracking as he realized the danger.
The Moon Reavers, once held at bay by the protective boundary, were advancing. Their movements were no longer sluggish or indifferent. They were gliding forward with an unnatural grace, heads twitching, bodies low, as if tasting the fear leaking into the air. And the barrier—the only thing that had held them back—was rapidly receding toward the manor, drawing a new invisible line only a few meters from the gate.
Gorak wasted no time. The giant of a man surged forward with surprising agility, scooping up Robin in a single motion despite the younger man’s groans of protest.
“Stop squirming or I’ll drop you and let the Reavers nibble on your ankles,” Gorak grunted.
Melisande jolted to her feet, her healer’s robes fluttering as she ran toward the manor. Her footing was uneven, and her body sluggish with exhaustion. In her rush, she stepped on the hem of her robes—mud-slick and heavy—and her balance faltered.
She pitched forward, eyes open as she was about to meet the ground face first. Her worry wasn’t about the wounds her face would receive once she falls, nor how more dirty would her clothes get, but once she falls, all she’ll become is food for the Reavers.
Before she hit the ground, a firm hand caught her.
Ludwig.
He had been close enough to intercept her fall, and his hand gently braced her shoulder as he pulled her upright. Her hands clutched instinctively at his coat, and for a brief, breathless moment—everything else vanished.
Her eyes met his.
And within Ludwig’s, she saw depth.
Not just color. His irises were a swirling storm of blue and azure, like the bottomless ocean under a sky kissed by lightning. There was something ancient behind those eyes. Something that didn’t belong to a simple man wandering the ruins of a cursed domain.
Something that shouldn’t have still been alive, but at the same time it was hauntingly beautiful.
She froze. Her thoughts scattered.
“Melisande!” Timur’s voice tore through the haze like a whip. “No time for picking up young masters!”
“Ah—excuse me!” she stammered, blinking quickly as she pulled away from Ludwig and hurried ahead.
The four adventurers burst through the gate, breathing heavily, the closing wall of Reavers hot on their heels.
Ludwig, who was about to draw his weapon, paused. His hand hovered over the Shard of Durandal hidden within his coat, fingers lightly wrapped around the hilt. The weapon shimmered with a quiet hum of restrained violence.
But he didn’t draw it.
Durandal’s shard was a rare thing—. Its shifting form, from blade to scythe to chained destruction, marked it as a weapon of importance and uniqueness. Something recognizable. Something that could identify him as Ludwig Heart instead of Davon.
So he couldn’t use it lest it exposes him.
What other options did he have?
Direct magic? Ineffective. The Moon Reavers simply ignored it. Indirect spells? All curses that’s just asking the adventurers to turn on him.
No, fighting now would only waste strength and expose truths he wasn’t ready to share.
So he stepped back. Slowly. Carefully. Not turning his back to them. His eyes never left the Reavers.
The barrier stopped retreating just meters from the manor steps—just enough to contain the structure, leaving a narrow strip of garden exposed to the night. The air crackled faintly with strained magic, like a shield running low on power. A momentary reprieve. That’s all it was.
“Seems like it stopped… for now,” Timur muttered.
Ludwig, still watching the Reavers, responded without turning his head. “It’ll only hold like this for a short while. My guess… one of the Beast Lords was slain. The Reavers must’ve moved to reclaim the vacant ground.”
Robin, groggy but alert, raised his voice from Gorak’s shoulder. “How would you know that?”
“The moon,” Ludwig said simply. “Its energy’s grown thicker. When I killed one of the Lords, it reacted the same way. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen it shift like this.”
They didn’t trust him. That much was clear in their expressions. But they had no counter. No better explanation. No other option.
“I don’t know how long the barrier will last,” Ludwig said, his tone quiet but firm. “And I don’t know when—or if—the Reavers will find and kill the final Lord. When they do… all hell will break loose.”
He turned from the gate, finally letting his eyes fall from the horizon.
“So rest while you can. Once the shield’s gone, survival becomes our only goal.”
And with that, Ludwig walked through the entrance of the manor and disappeared into the shadows within.
The group hesitated. No one spoke.
Then, wordlessly, they followed.
The manor swallowed them in silence.