The rebels moved under the shroud of night, their bodies pressed close to the dense undergrowth that lined the forest surrounding the council's stronghold. Every step was measured, every breath controlled. There was no room for hesitation. The decision had been made: they would strike first. No more waiting for the Raven's inevitable return. No more fighting on uneven terms. The sanctum had revealed their truths, shaped their resolve, and now, they would wield that strength against the empire that had kept them bound in chains for far too long.
Arkanis led the front line, his blade strapped tightly to his side. Though his wound still throbbed beneath layers of bandages, he refused to falter. The relic pulsed lightly against his chest, its energy simmering just beneath the surface. It did not command him—it did not overwhelm him. Instead, it waited, listening, as if it too understood the gravity of the path he had chosen. Behind him, Elara followed, her daggers glinting under the silver light of the moon. Every muscle in her body was taut, prepared for whatever lay ahead. She had fought in countless battles, had bled alongside the people she had sworn to protect—but tonight felt different. Tonight, they were hunters.
Zyre scouted ahead, moving like a shadow through the trees. His eyes flicked between vantage points, analyzing every weakness in the council's defenses. "There," he whispered, pointing toward a break in their patrol patterns. "We strike when the shift changes. If we move now, we risk getting pinned." His voice was steady, unwavering. A commander who had fought too many wars but understood that every battle required patience.
Arkanis nodded, signaling to the rebels that they would wait. The minutes stretched into what felt like hours, their nerves taut with anticipation. Then, as the guards moved away, leaving a gap in their defenses, Arkanis whispered one word: "Now."
The rebels surged forward, silent as the wind, weaving through the outer perimeter with precision. They worked fast, disabling patrol units before alarms could be sounded. Arkanis fought with the tempered fury of a man who had finally embraced the destiny laid before him. Each strike was clean, each movement calculated. The sanctum had revealed what lay within him, and now, for the first time, he wielded that knowledge with certainty.
Elara was a phantom among the chaos, striking with effortless grace, using speed over strength to dismantle their enemies before they had a chance to react. Zyre moved between formations, cutting down threats before they could regroup, ensuring their attack remained undetected for as long as possible.
But stealth could only last so long.
A shout rang through the night—a scout who had spotted them too late but had sounded the alarm nonetheless.
The stronghold erupted into a frenzy, torches igniting the darkness, soldiers rushing to their posts. The element of surprise had been lost. The rebels had planned for this. They had known the risk.
Arkanis lifted his sword. "We finish this."
The council's forces surged forward, but the rebels did not retreat. They met their adversaries head-on, a storm of defiance against the tide of oppression. The battle was brutal, fast, unforgiving. Arkanis could feel the relic's energy rising, responding to the chaos with a heat that threatened to consume him. But he controlled it. He would not let it take him.
Elara fought beside him, her presence a steadying force. "We hold the line!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the din of battle.
And then, through the haze of combat, a familiar figure emerged.
The Raven.
He stood at the far end of the stronghold, watching, waiting, unmoving.
Arkanis met his gaze across the bloodstained battlefield.
This was no mere skirmish.
This was the beginning of the end.
And neither of them would walk away unchanged.