Gemini Coil

Varzan's silence lingered just long enough to feel like defiance. The fire crackled between them, the only sound as Veyzrick tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting.

"You're tense, Varzan," Veyzrick murmured, stepping closer. "That means one of two things: you're lying… or you're finally waking up."

Varzan didn't blink. "I'm keeping the camp from tearing itself apart."

"Are you?" Veyzrick said, voice low and almost admiring. "Or are you just trying to stop them from seeing who's really pulling the strings?"

Behind them, murmurs rippled through the camp. People stirred—watching. Listening. The name Lyle had started to spread again, like embers drifting on wind. Some had seen the twin-shaped storm on the horizon. Others had heard the howling that came before it. All of them could feel the shift in the air.

A change was coming.

And Veyzrick, ever the opportunist, was the first to taste blood in it.

"We both know what's going to happen," he continued. "Either they come back… or they don't. Either way, this charade ends. And when it does—" he let the words dangle, sharp and clean.

Varzan stepped forward, close enough to meet his gaze directly. "If you light that match, Veyzrick… you better pray you're fireproof."

The smirk twitched. Brief. Controlled. Then Veyzrick leaned back, hands raised in mock surrender. "Hey. Just talking. You're the one sweating."

He melted into the shadows again, his presence retreating but not vanishing. Like a stormcloud circling the edges of a dry field, waiting for the right spark.

Varzan turned, eyes scanning the group.

Some stared back, others looked away. The tide was shifting, not with force—but with doubt. And doubt, he knew, was harder to kill than any enemy.

He glanced again to the horizon—where the battle still raged. Where Jacob and Connor stood united, radiant and terrifying. Where Lyle was finally standing without running. Where the story had changed.

Where hope had become dangerous.

And Varzan whispered to himself, almost like a prayer.

Hold the line, Varzan urged himself. Just a little longer.

Because if they failed out there, everything here would burn.

And Veyzrick…

Veyzrick would be the one holding the match.

Meanwhile, in the thick of the battle—or rather, the attempted assassination of their rival Archon of Man—the twins had their hands full.

Ash drifted like snow over the scarred plain, stirred by the fading heat of Geveno's final flames. The air pulsed—bruised and trembling—with the ghost of soul-forged blows. Every breath dragged heavy, every heartbeat echoed in the silence left behind.

At the center stood Jacob and Connor—one body, two minds. Their shoulders rose and fell in perfect sync. Cracks laced their chestplate, scorch marks painting it like battle-worn sigils, but beneath the grime, the Oathfire Regalia still shimmered. Emberlight rippled across its surface, as if the armor itself inhaled.

Markus stood nearby, hand on the hilt of his blade. A swordsman to his core—measured, sharp, defined by control. Yet as he watched the twins, a quiet unease gnawed at him.

How…?

How can they fight like that—unarmed, in step, as if guided by one thought?

Because they were.

Jacob and Connor moved as one, wreathed in flickering coils of ethereal flame. The Ethereal Flamer Soul Link blazed between them, forming a phantom aura—cool to the eye, but burning with fierce intent. Within it, their minds fused. No gap. No delay. No division.

Skill unlocked : Gemini Coil{ rare}

Two Brains. One Body.

Geveno lunged with blistering speed, blade carving a searing arc—only to find it caught mid-swing. Connor had already braced the angle before it was thrown, his defense instinctive. In the same breath, Jacob struck back—aiming precisely for the gap Geveno's swing had opened. One brother focused entirely on defense, the other on attack—and together, they moved beyond the limits of solo combat.

Gevena circled from the flank, low and fast, aiming to sweep their legs. But the twins shifted, a twist of balance, a minute change in weight—turning what should've been a knockdown into a fluid evasion that glided over her assault. No words passed between them. No signals. Just shared tension in the muscles, breath syncing, instinct guiding instinct.

Their spear came alive in their hands. Connor gripped the rear, steady and firm, while Jacob guided the blade with sharp, precise movements. The weapon flicked and twisted like a living thing—short jabs melting into sweeping arcs, feints folding into real attacks. A sudden spiral in their stance added torque to a forward thrust, launching the spear like a drilling bolt toward Geveno, who barely sidestepped in time.

Connor's prosthetic leg slammed into the earth a moment later, locking him in place. Using his anchored stance, Jacob whipped the spear in a vicious, lightning-fast arc, the tip slicing through the air and grazing Gevena's shoulder, tearing through part of her armor. Even as she staggered, Jacob baited a strike—only to retract it mid-thrust, spinning the spear into a devastating side blow that caught her off-guard.

She retaliated, blade crashing down—but Jacob met it with a clash of the spear's shaft. Then Connor twisted his grip in the opposite direction, pulling while Jacob pushed. The force of their opposing momentum nearly disarmed her, throwing her off balance and staggering her steps.

They weren't just attacking—they were sculpting pressure. Carving movement. Redefining combat with every strike.

Geveno's brow furrowed, his breathing sharp. Gevena wiped blood from her cheek.

This wasn't brute strength.

This was something they'd never faced before.

Something terrifying—something even they don't fully possess.

Unity.