RAVEN'S GAMBIT

Theron Blackroot stood at the edge of the stone scrying basin, his eyes fixed on the churning surface of the water. The image within flickered like a candle in storm winds — unstable, fragile, but vivid enough to show what he could not bear to witness.

Elowyn lay bleeding. Thalia whispered words not her own. Thog hurled Whelm with the wrath of an earthquake, and Lira Valesong — goddess damn her bold heart — turned to face the monster alone.

The pool shimmered.

And Lira was gone.

Theron’s hand tightened on Blackrazor’s hilt. The obsidian blade pulsed once. But that was all.

It had fed. It should have sung. Should have leapt in his hand like a ravenous beast.

But it merely slept.

“No secrets given,” Theron whispered bitterly. “You take but don’t reveal. Parasite.”

He slammed the pommel against the stone rim of the basin — hard enough to chip it — but the sword remained mute.

He was no wizard. No scrolls, no glyphs, no teleportation. He had power — divine and deadly — but not the kind that could bridge the void of space and time to save his friends.

And yet…

Something flickered in the pool.

Just before the image rippled into distortion, Theron saw a tall, thin figure — a man cloaked in charcoal shadows, his face hidden behind a shifting mask. A coyote’s grin… a crow’s beak… a withered man’s smirk.

The Trickster. The old god. The native spirit known as Raven.

Or a vision of him.

“Wait—!” Theron leaned closer, the pool’s water curling like smoke around the vision.

Then a voice came from behind him, smooth as midnight:

“You’re looking into places best left veiled, Blackroot.”

Theron froze. He stood upright, turned slowly, and found Raven behind him.

The same voice. The same posture. The same hollow-eyed look of cosmic mischief.

And yet…

Wrong.

The magic hummed beneath the skin of the illusion — strong, layered, and woven with exquisite precision — but Theron was no fool. He felt the wrongness of it. The pulse of necromancy under glamoured skin. He couldn’t pierce the disguise, but he sensed the sorcery.

This was not the Trickster.

But he bowed his head, just slightly, and played along.

“I had no choice,” he said quietly. “They’re dying. She’s gone. I can’t reach them.”

Raven stepped closer, hands behind his back, tilting his head to peer into the pool. “Lira Valesong is brave. But bravery can be a terminal condition.”

Theron didn’t rise to the bait. “If you can help them, do it. I don’t care what rules you follow, what games you play, or what masks you wear. Just help them.”

The imposter arched a brow. “And if I don’t?”

Theron looked up, eyes dark. “Then I’ll know who you really are. And you’ll know what it means to be hunted by one who’s nothing left to lose.”

There was a pause.

Then… a smile.

Not Raven’s grin. But something older. Colder.

Keraptis hid it well — but not perfectly.

“Very well,” he said at last, with the voice of the Trickster. “A gift. A crack in the veil. A breath of magic where none should be.”

He raised a hand over the basin. Wisps of black and silver flowed from his fingers and dipped into the pool.

In the vault, far below, the antimagic field wavered.

Just a ripple.

But sometimes, a ripple is all it takes.

Keraptis turned away. “Now, Blackroot. You saw nothing. You heard nothing. You and I never spoke.”

Theron didn’t move. “Of course not. I only ever speak to Raven.”

The illusion held as the figure walked away — and vanished into shadow.

Theron looked down into the pool again, heart pounding.

This wasn’t over.

But maybe… just maybe… his friends had a chance now.

He knelt, sword across his knees, and began to pray — not to gods.

But to Thalia.

To Thog.

To Tessa.

To those still fighting.

And to the one who had just been lost.

TO BE CONTINUED…