A full year had quietly passed, like a breath held too long, and Arasha felt it in her bones.
Her days had grown longer, her tasks more relentless.
What began as isolated reports of monster sightings had escalated into an unnerving pattern.
Strange new breeds of creatures — more aggressive, more cunning, and alarmingly resistant to standard countermeasures — had started surfacing near the borders and along lesser-traveled trade routes.
They left behind not just ruin, but intent — as if driven by something more than instinct.
Arasha's brow was furrowed as she poured over parchment after parchment in her war room, each bearing grim tidings.
Village guards were wiped out without a trace.
Patrols disappearing.
Whole herds of monsters migrating away from known territories — a clear sign that something was driving them from their dens.
Even with her divine blessing, which once gave her calm clarity, Arasha couldn't shake the sense that these incidents were not just anomalies.
They were warnings.
In response, she'd shifted much of her focus away from outward expansion to strategic defense: reinforcing strongholds in key border regions, converting abandoned temples into evacuation shelters, and training swift-response units led by her most trusted knights.
She even coordinated drills with surrounding baronies, ensuring their people could be moved to safety in mere hours should the need arise.
Her network had also grown.
Cassian and the Merchant Alliance had become pivotal — their caravans now doubled as information couriers and mobile supply routes.
They offered insights from across the sea, where rumors of similar disturbances whispered along the edges of the known world.
The Adventurer's Guilds, once fragmented and territorial, had begun to work with her.
Some out of respect.
Some out of fear.
Arasha didn't care about their motives — only that they were prepared.
And then there were the diplomatic letters.
Carefully worded requests for military cooperation, food reserves, and magic reinforcements had been sent to the kingdoms of the north and the desert tribes of the east.
A slow but steady alignment was forming, delicate as a spider's web.
Yet, despite all this, a gnawing unease lingered.
Late into the night, when the world quieted and the fire in her hearth crackled low, Arasha would stand at her window and look toward the north, where the mist never seemed to lift, and where the stars above seemed faintest.
Her instincts whispered a truth too vast to name.
"This isn't the war," she murmured to herself one night as she looked at her father's sword, now hers, resting at her bedside. "This seems to be only a warning bell."
And it was getting louder.
****
Concern etched deep lines into Linalee's face as she activated a communication sigil, its glow illuminating the cavern's shadows. Moments later, the visage of Sir Garran materialized, his expression stoic yet attentive.
"Garran," Linalee began, her voice tinged with urgency, "the Veil is deteriorating faster than anticipated. The temporal threads are fraying, and I fear the consequences of its collapse."
Sir Garran's brow furrowed. "It's a full year faster than expected…How are you?"
Linalee hesitated, choosing her words with care. "I'm at my limit, but that's not what matters. As the Veil weakens, I glimpse a vision—fleeting yet profound. It was Arasha in the hands of the Primordials. Her fate, once again uncertain, and now appears to be tainted and twisted, more so than ever before."
A heavy silence settled between them.
"You must watch over her. I don't have any time left," Linalee continued. "The forces at play are beyond our full comprehension, but Arasha stands at the nexus. Her path is fraught with peril, and she will need unwavering support."
Sir Garran nodded solemnly. "I will ensure her safety, Linalee. Thank you."
Linalee smiled and nodded.
Garran could only look at her with misty eyes and end the call, fearing that what he might say would be far from helpful.
As the sigil dimmed and the connection severed, Linalee turned back to check on Arasha's fate, but no matter how many times she tried to veil it again, it didn't work.
With a sigh, Linalee resigned to her fate.
She whispered a silent prayer to the ancient powers, hoping that they would guide and help Arasha to withstand the coming storm.
****
In the grand war hall of the Order's base, tension pulsed like a taut bowstring.
Arasha stood at the center, the king's summons in her hand—a gilded scroll bearing threats veiled in formality. Around her, her knights seethed with fury, voices rising in outrage at the gall and audacity of the crown.
"They dare threaten to cut our funding?" Leta hissed. "After everything we've done?"
"They call it insubordination," Sir Garran said coldly, "because she prioritizes saving lives over sipping wine."
Captain Merrin's knuckles whitened around the hilt of her sword. "This is nothing more than a gilded leash."
Yet through the growing storm of indignation, Arasha remained calm, her voice cutting cleanly through the noise. "If the royals and nobles want a spectacle," she said, "then we will give them one. But it will be our kind of spectacle."
The knights fell silent.
She lifted her chin, her steel-gray eyes sharp and resolute. "Let them have their pageantry. We will not bow—we will remind them who stands between their feasts and the monsters clawing at the walls of our kingdom."
****
The Midwinter Banquet gleamed with opulence. The royal palace was bedecked in crystal and gold, nobles dripping in jewels and silks, laughter tinkling like wind chimes.
But all merriment froze when the doors to the grand ballroom slammed open.
Commander Arasha Dawnbringer entered.
Clad in full ceremonial battle armor, her black cloak parting to reveal armor forged in dragon-fire, the crest of the Scion Order emblazoned over her breastplate, dragon struck by three lightning spears, stained with the shadows of war.
Her obsidian hair was bound back in a braid like a drawn blade, and her shimmering amber eyes—cold, calculating, and distant—held no warmth, no mercy.
Each step she took echoed with grim reverence, her helm tucked beneath her arm.
Behind her, a formation of her elite knights entered—silent, disciplined, grim. At the center, dragged in chains and muzzled with enchanted steel, an orc—hulking and thrashing—was forced to its knees before the King's dais.
Gasps erupted. Courtiers scattered. A noblewoman fainted.
Before anyone could react further, Arasha unsheathed her sword, Everlasting Luxfire, in a single smooth motion. A heartbeat later, the orc's head rolled across the marble floor, the creature dead before it could even snarl.
Silence.
Not even music dared to resume.
Arasha turned, her voice resonant and unwavering. "We do not wear silks and sip wine in comfort. We wear blood, and ash, and the burden of every soul we've saved," she gestured toward the severed orc.
"You would threaten me to wear gowns and smile for your own amusement," she declares. "While we fight monsters born from the world's nightmares, with blades dulled and rations spoiled, because your coffers prefer dances over survival."
The King, too stunned to speak, looked around and saw not fear—but shame—in the eyes of his court.
Finally, she looked at the king.
"Uncle."
His mouth opened, but no words came.
Seeing the pathetic reaction of the King, Arasha was right not to expect anything from the king.
Then Arasha bowed. Just slightly.
"Thank you for your generous invitation, Your Majesty."
And with that, she turned and walked away, her knights parting the crowd like a blade through silk.
No one dared to stop her.
Blood pooled around the orc's body, steaming in the cold droughts of the hall.
A servant began to sob quietly.
Somewhere, a noblewoman retched into a jeweled goblet.
The king remained seated, goblet still raised but forgotten, his trembling hand stained red to the cuff.
His eyes—once haughty and dismissive—were now wide and hollow with the reality he'd just witnessed.
A moment later, as if choreographed by fate, the doors creaked open again.
Not Arasha—no. A young steward entered, visibly shaken, clutching a scroll bound in dark ribbon.
He made his way up the blood-slick marble steps to the dais, knelt, and offered the parchment to the king with both hands.
"Commander Arasha bids this be delivered immediately," he said, eyes on the floor.
The king, as if in a trance, accepted the scroll. Unraveling it with trembling fingers, he scanned the first lines—then the next—and his face twisted not with horror this time, but with deep spite.
How Dare She!!!
The king cursed Arasha in his mind but after personally witnessing her brutality the King kept his thoughts to himself. He then looked at the scroll once again with a scowl.
It was a requisition order. Meticulously prepared. Legally sound. Stamped with the sigil of the Scion Order.
To His Majesty King Alric IV, by the grace of crown and holy light, ruler of the Kingdom Luxurite,
Pursuant to Article VII, Section IX of the Royal Wartime Provisions Charter, and in accordance with the Emergency Clause invoked by Field Commander Arasha Dawnbringer of the Scion Order, the following funds are to be released within seven days:
An increase of 40,000 gold pieces annually to cover armament reforging, monster-hunter provisions, and necessary other medical and logistic supplies.
Hazard pay and posthumous pensions for all fallen knights under her command.
Authority to conscript condemned criminals and mercenaries under a revised pardon clause for suicide missions into the raptures and other high risk anomaly related areas.
Autonomy to deny royal summons when engaged in active suppression of class-X threats.
Noncompliance will result in public disclosure and disclosure to allied forces of mission records from the past two years, including classified incursions, mass casualty reports, and your council's repeated denials for aid.
At the bottom: a perfect wax seal bearing three lightning spear plunged into a dragon's skull.
The king stared at it for a long moment, his knuckles whitening.
"She came prepared," muttered one of the nobles.
"She's always prepared," whispered another.
The steward stood silently, waiting. Not pressuring. Just waiting. As though he knew the king would sign. As though Arasha knew the king would sign.
How can he not? When she clearly demonstrated what will happen if he didn't.
King Alric clenched his jaw.
"She flaunts it," he thought bitterly. She flaunts her strength, her power, as if it is some grand mercy she bestows upon the kingdom.
She should have been honored and grateful that her blessing enable her to serve the kingdom and protect them, the royals and the nobles!
And yet she used it to threaten them!
Truly a shameless wench!
Yet with all his arrogance and self importance, the king wordlessly, with a hand still stained by the blood of the orc and the price of his ignorance, the king scrawled his signature at the bottom, the ink trembling.
The steward bowed, took the scroll, and left without another word.
The king looked out over his court—his nobles, now pale and quiet and so very far from their power. The music would not resume. The feast would not be tasted.
She just had to ruin a perfect banquet for such nonsense! Just you wait Arasha!
The King with his hurt pride schemes shamelessly on how to bring down Arasha and humble her, for the sake of the kingdom.
****
As the frost-laced wind of the capital night chilled the air, Arasha's boots echoed against the stone steps leading down from the palace.
Her armor, still spattered with orc blood, shimmered faintly under the moonlight.
Her knights followed, solemn and silent, the weight of what they had done—what they had shown—settling into their shoulders like new links in a growing chain.
They had barely crossed the capital's outer gate when a rider approached at breakneck speed, horse lathered and eyes wide with alarm.
"Commander!" the scout gasped, reins pulled hard. "A rift—it's opened. Southeast of the capital, near Eastiny Village. Just past the Mongose groves."
Arasha's expression sharpened. "How long?"
"Not even an hour, my lady. The skies there... they've split. And monsters—they're already attacking. Villagers fleeing. And—there's more. A group. Hooded. Armed. Using magic like we've never seen. They're… they're worshiping the creatures."
Without hesitation, Arasha's voice rang out like steel on steel.
"To arms. All knights present, we ride now."
Eastiny was ablaze by the time they reached it. The air thrummed with unnatural energy—etheric threads pulsing with dark magic. The rift hovered just beyond the village's edge, a jagged tear in the world glowing with a sickly violet hue, its edges crackling with arcs of energy. Through it, serpentine beasts with bony wings and wolflike creatures with molten eyes poured forth, sowing destruction.
But worse were the cultists.
Clad in dark robes embroidered with symbols not seen since the last Reckoning, they chanted in unison, casting spells that drained the land and poisoned the air.
Their faces were obscured, but their power was real—coordinated attacks of arcane fire, shadowy tendrils, and barriers that deflected arrows and spells alike.
The Scion Order met them head-on. Steel clashed with claw, light against void.
Arasha fought at the front, her sword a streak of silver judgment, felling beasts and warlocks alike.
Her blessing glowed upon her skin, protection and wrath dancing in every strike.
Her knights followed her lead, undaunted, unflinching.
But the enemy was cunning, and the magic unnatural. Their commander, a warlock in gold-threaded robes, called down a barrage that exploded among the knight ranks.
Screams rang out. Limbs scattered. The line faltered.
Arasha roared, voice crackling with divine fury.
She hurled herself into the heart of the cult's defense, her sword tearing through barriers and bodies.
Still, the cost was grievous.
When the rift was finally sealed—burned closed by one of the Scion Order mages' wild fire magic that flared in from behind after a delayed reinforcement—the battlefield was littered with the dead. Smoke clung to the air. Cries of the wounded rose into the night.
Eighteen knights had fallen.
Eighteen.
Arasha knelt by one of them—a young woman named Yvra, whose first knighthood ceremony Arasha had personally overseen not three moons ago.
Her eyes were open, gazing skyward, blood soaking the once-pristine crest of the Scion Order.
Arasha didn't cry. She simply reached down and closed Yvra's eyes, her hand trembling only once.
She stood slowly, her armor heavier than ever.
"We bury them with full honors," she said, voice hollow but resolute. "Every name will be remembered. Every sacrifice accounted for."
Behind her, the surviving knights bowed their heads. Even Sir Garran stood in silence, one hand over his chest.
But in her heart, a crack had formed—silent, invisible, and growing.
And as Arasha looked once more at the scorched remnants of Eastiny, and the still-glowing stains of residual void magic where the rift had been, she knew:
This was only the start.
****
The road stretched long and quiet beneath the weary steps of Arasha's warhorse, hooves crunching softly against frost-laced earth. Her armor was stripped away, replaced by a dark wool cloak, the silver clasp of the Scion Order the only sign of who she was.
She had refused an escort. This—this grief, this duty—was hers alone to carry.
One by one, she visited them. The families of the fallen eighteen. Each home was different—some grand manors in quiet rural holdings, some humble cottages nestled in the folds of forgotten hamlets.
The first mother fell to her knees when she saw Arasha standing at her door, her son's name barely leaving her lips before she broke into a sob that shook the walls.
Arasha held her, wordless, as she wept, and when she placed the compensation scroll and crest of honor into the woman's trembling hands, she bowed low, as if asking forgiveness for surviving.
Others were not so kind.
A father stared blankly at the parchment before hurling it into the fire, yelling that no coin could replace his only daughter.
One grieving wife, her eyes swollen and red, struck Arasha hard across the face, the slap echoing like a judgment in the silence. Arasha didn't flinch.
She bowed again, whispered a solemn apology, and left her with the flag and sword of her beloved, laid respectfully at the doorstep.
One old knight's brother merely nodded when he received the news, staring off into the distance as he whispered a prayer.
"He died serving the best commander this kingdom will ever know," he said, voice hoarse with unshed tears. "He was proud to ride under you."
It was the last home, however, that carved the deepest mark upon Arasha's soul.
A tiny cottage on the far side of an orchard, where Merrin's daughter and mother lived.
The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows on the snow-flecked fence.
The old woman was sitting by the fire, quiet and frail, and the girl—six years old, bright-eyed, her hair in two uneven braids—ran to the door when she heard the knock.
"Are you Papa's friend?" she asked with a smile.
Arasha opened her mouth, but her voice didn't come out. Instead, she knelt.
"I am," she managed, her throat dry.
The girl, Reyna, tilted her head. "Did he send you? Did he say when he's coming back?"
Arasha felt the weight of her sword at her hip and wished she could trade it for a lie that wouldn't crumble under a child's gaze.
"No," she whispered. "He… won't be coming back, Reyna."
"Why?" Reyna asked, her brow furrowing. "Is he lost?"
Arasha could only open the small satchel she carried, pulling out a hand-carved wooden bunny. Merrin had shown it to her once, before their last deployment.
"For her," he'd stated with a wry smile. "Winterfest. She always wanted a bunny, but it's hard to raise one when it's usually just Reyna and my old mother. Since most of the time I'm away from home, I can't help her raise one."
Arasha placed the bunny into Reyna's small hands. "He made this for you. To keep you company."
Reyna stared at it, lips trembling. "But he promised he'd be home. He promised to celebrate Winterfest…"
Arasha didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Instead, she pulled the child into a trembling embrace, holding her close as Reyna's tiny body shook with confused sobs.
The mother looked on with tears in her ancient eyes, her hand gently resting on Arasha's shoulder.
"You came yourself," she said softly. "Most wouldn't. Thank you, Commander."
Arasha bowed her head, still cradling the child in her arms, her heart quietly cracking along the seams.
By the time she rode away from that final home, the stars had begun to bloom above the darkened sky.
She rode in silence, the world around her hushed, the air heavy with frost and memory.
She would carry their names. Their stories. Their pain.
And she would never forget.