The warehouse stood on the city's edge, a hulking relic of forgotten industry, its rafters casting shadows like skeletal ribs under sodium lights that buzzed like dying flies. Hartiel had leased it from a gruff landlord, her charm turning his scowl to a nod over a single call, her voice weaving persuasion like a priestess's chant. The concrete floor was cracked, dusted with sawdust and resolve, the air heavy with oil, rust, and the faint tang of paint that lingered in Ashton's mind. Marines arrived at dusk, thermoses steaming with bitter coffee, their hoodies concealing scars from battles he couldn't fathom—deserts, jungles, or stranger realms beyond the veil. Harley's toolbox clanked, her grin promising chaos, a spark plug swinging from her belt like a talisman. Cam tested radios, their static a heartbeat in the quiet, his fingers deft as he calibrated frequencies to pierce walls. Zreri's wolf ears scanned like radar, her gray fur catching the light, her presence a wall of quiet strength, claws flexing as she paced the perimeter. Henry drew a chalk circle on the concrete, not mysticism but intent, its lines crisp as a vow, glowing faintly under the flickering lights. "The key lies with thee, Ashton," he said, his voice resonant, a bard addressing his court, each word weighted with purpose, his dragon's aura filling the space like a hearth's warmth.
Ashton stood in the circle's center, heart pounding, the dream's painted hallway vivid—teal and magenta swirling, Lucina's boots echoing like a war drum. He closed his eyes, the warehouse fading, the air shimmering blue as a seam split reality like a wound, a chill wind carrying the scent of paint and steel. Lucina stepped through, her armor scarred by unseen wars, runes pulsing along its edges, her hair catching the light like a raven's wing, wolf ears twitching as she scanned the room. She crossed the circle in three strides, embracing Ashton with a fierceness that stole his breath, her grip both shield and challenge, her armor cold against his skin. "Kept me waiting, asshole," she said, voice soft yet unyielding, a smile tugging at her lips, her eyes fierce and warm, holding his like a promise forged in blood.
Zreri nodded, her stoic face breaking into a rare smile, her claws flexing as if to test the air's weight. Hartiel wiped a tear, muttering, "Fucking sage allergies," her bracelets clinking as she turned away, her voice betraying a crack of emotion. Henry's voice was warm, a hearth in the cold: "Welcome home, warrior." They sat on crates, passing coffee in chipped mugs, the ritual grounding them, the mugs' warmth seeping into their palms. Lucina spoke of paintstorm rifts—dimensions bleeding teal and magenta, hunters stalking with bolas and blades, hybrids spawning from pulsating sacs, mimics wearing stolen faces to deceive. Ashton shared Discord's fall, his voice steady despite the ache, the betrayal a ghost in his words—cropped DMs, ghosted friends, a server's silence. The warehouse became a bastion, trust etched in chalk, their bond a shield against the coming storm, each sip of coffee a vow to fight as one, their eyes meeting in the dim light, resolute.