Kaela stood alone on the hardened earth, the mist curling around her ankles like wary fingers. Across from her, the herald loomed—tall, hollow-eyed, its golden gaze fixed on her with a hunger that went deeper than flesh. Behind her, on the walls, she felt Lysanthir's silent watch, Valtor's low growl, Lilith's whisper of movement in the dark.
Her fingers tightened on her daggers. The mark on her skin pulsed, heat flaring down her spine. It's here for me.
For a heartbeat, Kaela's mind flickered—not with fear, but memory. She saw the village behind her: the child who once offered her a wildflower, the old hunter who was always kind. Lilith's rare, approving nod when Kaela had slipped unseen past every sentry. And behind it all—Lysanthir's gaze, cool as winter light, steady as the stars.The mark on her skin pulsed again, and she understood: she was not just a blade. She was a promise—one the herald had come to break.
The first step was hers.
Kaela moved—fast, sharp, a golden blur cutting through the heavy air. The herald answered in kind, gliding forward like a shadow dragged loose from the world. They collided with a soundless impact, steel biting into mist, claws scraping against something that wasn't quite flesh.
For a moment, it was just the two of them—Kaela's blades carving through vapor and bone, the herald's limbs twisting, reshaping, lashing back with inhuman speed. The mark on her arm blazed, pulling light and heat through every strike.
A flicker of memory flared through Kaela's mind—Lysanthir's quiet command at the training grounds: "Don't fight the shape. Fight the rhythm."
Her breath steadied, her steps fell into pattern. Not the herald's pattern, but hers. One, two, slip aside. Three, strike low.
The mark pulsed in time, a metronome beneath her skin. She felt its awareness—not just power, but presence—woven into every nerve, whispering in a voice that was not her own: ''We are not prey.''
Kaela's mouth twisted into a thin smile.'' Not tonight.''
Along the wall, the watchmen braced, eyes wide as the herald's aura flooded the field. One stumbled; another muttered a prayer to a half-forgotten god.
Valtor's deep growl rippled across the stones, pulling them back to focus.
Lilith's daughters, poised like blades in the dark, exchanged a glance—one gave a sharp nod, the other touched the hilts of her daggers in a silent vow.
One daughter whispered, voice soft as falling ash, "Mother, shall we cut the threads now?"Lilith's lips curved slightly, her crimson eyes flicking toward the herald. "No," she murmured, "not yet. Let the fox dance first."The sisters exchanged a glance, twin smiles sharp as their blades. The dance of death had always been their favorite song.
High above, Lysanthir's gaze sharpened, flicking once toward the battlefield, then briefly skyward, as if measuring the weight of the stars themselves.
The herald was not alone. And neither was she.
A roar split the cold—Valtor, crashing forward in a storm of crimson scales, claws raking deep. Lilith surged from the shadows, her daggers a whisper of silver in the night, her daughters streaking like black thorns through the mist.
Kaela darted back, breath ragged, eyes sharp as she met Lilith's glance. A nod passed between them—quick, sure.Together.
The mist shuddered. A new weight fell over the battlefield.
Lysanthir descended the wall, his presence pulling the air tight, slowing time to a hush. His cloak rippled faintly as he raised one hand, fingers tracing lines through the mist that flared pale and cold.
The villagers, huddled beyond the fires, fell silent as they saw him walk. To them, he was no longer just the Hollow Star or master of the walls—he was the still point, the eye in the storm.
Angela, clutching the edge of a prayer stone, whispered a broken fragment of hope. Even the youngest soldiers found their breath steady, their hands tightening on their weapons with quiet resolve.
The earth answered.The runes carved into the blackstone pulsed, light crackling across the field like frost splitting wood.
Kaela felt the pull—the mark tightening, the connection between her and the herald stretching thin. The creature faltered, its shape flickering, its scream slicing through the bones of the world.
"Now," Lysanthir spoke, a voice soft as falling ash but sharp as a blade's edge.
Kaela surged forward, the mark on her skin exploding into light. Her daggers struck—not into flesh, but into the tether, the unseen cord binding the herald to the mist. A blinding arc of light burst outward, snapping across the battlefield like a whip. For an instant, Kaela saw beyond the veil—the mist's root, the hollow heart where Morveth's magic coiled and fed.
In that split heartbeat, she understood: this wasn't just a weapon. It was a wound. A crack reaching back to Valaris, to thrones built on fear and sacrifice.
Lilith's shadows surged like living chains, Valtor's claws hammered the herald's frame, but it was Kaela's mark that tethered their wills together, a single thread binding defiance to destiny.
Lilith's shadows wrapped its limbs, Valtor's claws pinned it down.
And Lysanthir moved last.
With a single, precise motion, his fingers cut through the final thread.
The world broke open.
The mist recoiled, tearing back from the walls like a living thing unmade. The herald crumpled inward, its body folding and unraveling, the golden light in its eyes winking out as its form collapsed into ash.
For a breathless span of seconds, no one moved. Kaela felt her knees tremble, her pulse slowing into something jagged and raw. From the wall, a crow took wing, a single black smear against the paling sky.
Then, slowly, the air shifted.
Dawn crept over the horizon, pale and hesitant.
Kaela knelt at the edge of the battlefield, breath shaking, eyes fixed on the horizon. Lilith emerged from the fading dark, her daughters at her heels, crimson eyes gleaming. Valtor stood amid the fallen, his chest rising slow and heavy, claws caked with frost and ash.
Atop the wall, Lysanthir stood still, his gaze distant—fixed not on the ruined field, but on the far line of Valaris, where storm clouds brewed. In the crypt below, the demon stirred once—not with fury, but with something closer to satisfaction. Its voice coiled faintly through the binding runes, a whisper none heard: "The fracture widens even deeper."
Far across the frozen fields, deep in Valaris, a ripple of unease slipped through the corridors of power. A servant dropped a tray in the Duke's hall; a Prexie paused mid-prayer, fingers trembling over ash-marked robes.
Lilith's voice carried softly through the morning chill, a whisper edged in steel."Valaris will feel this."
Her daughters flanked her, one with a faint smile, the other with eyes still burning from the fight. Valtor rumbled low in his throat, his scales dark with frost, yet his gaze turned not to the horizon—but to Lysanthir, waiting for the next command. .
And beneath the rising sun, the village exhaled a breath of victory.