The round table was already surrounded by the city's commanding officers—seasoned veterans with steel in their eyes, young captains with freshly won scars, mages with faint burn marks across their fingers, and logistics masters whose ledgers had become weapons of their own.
The room carried the taut air of urgency.
Kane and Rewald took their places at the forefront, Arasha standing to one side with her arms folded, gaze sweeping over the assembled leaders.
Kane began laying out the provisional defense network, tapping points on the sprawling map where mage towers could be reinforced, where alchemists' supply lines needed protection, and where swift messengers could be stationed to maintain constant contact.
Mages and alchemists were to be sought out from the surrounding provinces, while seasoned warriors would be recalled from the borders to act as rapid-response units.
Logistic crews were to be drilled not just in supply management but in evacuation protocols, so no settlement would be left unguarded when the rifts appeared.
When the floor opened for input, Arasha leaned forward, her tone steady but carrying the weight of someone who had walked this road before.
"Your men will be the backbone of this network," she said. "But they cannot be rooted only here. Send them home in alternating batches—let them see with their own eyes that the countermeasures are taking shape in their own towns and villages. They'll not only carry skill, but trust, back with them. It will make the difference when fear starts to spread."
There was a murmur of agreement, some commanders exchanging quick nods. A few scratched notes onto parchment, already considering schedules and routes.
It was not a perfect plan—nothing ever was—but it was motion, and in times like these, motion was hope given shape.
The council meeting had barely adjourned when the first alarm bell split the air—a deep, resonant toll that rattled the stained-glass windows of Scion Hold.
A messenger stumbled through the war chamber doors, breathless, armor spattered with dust.
"Major rift sighted—northwest perimeter. It's… it's huge. And the creatures—" His voice cracked. "Our forward guard is already falling back. They're tearing through the lines."
The map on the table became irrelevant. Arasha was already moving, fastening her gauntlets with sharp, practiced motions.
Kane fell into step beside her without hesitation.
"You're not coming with me," she began, her voice sharp as the sword she drew.
But Kane cut across her, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"I'm not letting you out of my sight. Not ever again."
The steel in his voice stopped her mid-step.
For a heartbeat, memories flooded—times she had pushed ahead without him, times it had nearly cost them both.
She exhaled slowly, the fight draining from her just enough to nod.
He gave her the faintest of smiles. "Then trust me like you used to."
Turning to the assembled officers, Arasha found Garran among them.
"You're in command until I return. Coordinate with every allied force and move the main force as needed to secure the city and reinforce the inner lines."
"Yes, Commander," Garran answered, his jaw set like stone.
Within minutes, Arasha, Kane, and a small elite strike squad from the Scion Order were mounted and thundering through the cobbled streets.
Civilians scrambled to clear the way, their fear spilling into hurried prayers as the riders passed.
Overhead, the sky had already begun to tear.
The rift loomed like a wound in the heavens, spilling blinding light edged with black flame.
Shapes poured through—monsters twisted beyond recognition, their limbs too long, their eyes burning with voidlight. The sound they made was neither roar nor scream but something that burrowed into bone and thought alike.
And still, Arasha spurred her steed faster, her gaze fixed on the horror ahead.
****
The northern quarter was already chaos when Arasha's squad broke through the last barricade.
Civilians poured into the streets in blind panic—mothers clutching screaming children, elders stumbling with terror-clouded eyes, young men shouting for lost family.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning wood and the copper tang of blood.
The city guard fought desperately, shields locked, holding their ground in a ragged line to keep the monsters from reaching the fleeing masses.
Their formation wavered under the assault—fangs tearing, claws raking, void-tainted magic crackling across the cobbles.
"Clear a path!" Arasha shouted, voice like a blade cutting through the noise.
Her troops surged forward in disciplined waves, spears bristling, shields snapping up to turn aside strikes.
Within moments, a safe route began to open—tight, narrow, but enough for civilians to funnel through toward the inner gates. Kane moved like a shadow beside her, cutting down anything that broke through the line.
"Guards! Fall back to the evacuation route—wounded first!" Arasha barked, even as she ducked under the sweep of a chitinous claw to drive her sword up into a monster's underbelly.
One by one, her soldiers dragged injured guards to safety—men bleeding from deep gashes, women clutching shattered limbs, faces pale but eyes burning with the stubborn light of those who refused to abandon their posts.
The monsters pressed harder, sensing the retreat. Kane stepped forward, his blade igniting with a deep, otherworldly light as he cut down the front ranks, buying precious seconds.
Arasha joined him, and together they formed an unyielding wall, not a single creature slipping past.
Hours dragged like centuries.
The sun crawled across the sky, shadows lengthening, the streets slick with blood and ichor.
By the time the tide began to ebb, both Arasha and Kane were breathing hard, their armor dented and streaked with gore.
Finally, Kane broke away from the line, hands moving in swift, deliberate patterns.
Arcane seals flared into existence in the air, interlocking like chains of light. The rift above convulsed, the howling from within pitching into a desperate wail before it was pulled closed with a violent shudder.
The sudden silence rang louder than battle.
Without hesitation, Arasha left her guard post beside Kane and plunged into the rubble-strewn streets, her voice carrying over the wreckage.
"Check every building! Pull the trapped out! Move the wounded to the healer lines! No one is left behind!"
She knelt beside a weeping woman whose hands were scraped raw from clawing at fallen masonry, squeezing her shoulder and promising they'd get her family free.
She paused to bow her head over the bodies of the fallen—soldiers, guards, and civilians alike—her voice low and steady as she honored them with the old Scion prayer for the departed.
All around her, the people of the city began to breathe again, not in relief, but in the fragile, trembling awareness that they were still alive.
Arasha's knees ached from kneeling too long in the mud, her fingers still curled around the cooling hand of a man she could not save.
Around her, the square had become a hushed chaos—healers tending the groaning wounded, soldiers clearing debris, family members clinging to one another with the fragile relief of those who had narrowly escaped death.
She wanted—needed—to stay.
To kneel beside every grieving mother, to speak to every wide-eyed child, to wash the blood from her hands before she touched another living soul.
She wanted to stay until the dead were given their rites, until the last pyre burned low and the last prayer was whispered.
She wanted to stand in the midst of these survivors and remind them that despair was not the only thing left to them.
But the memory of the rift's opening—its sudden violence, its monstrous flood—still churned in her chest like a warning drumbeat.
If they waited, if they slowed for grief, it would happen again.
It would be worse next time.
She rose, forcing her voice to be steady as she called her officers together.
"You'll remain here," she said, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Help with the wounded. Guard the healers. Work with the city guard to rebuild the barricades. See to the last rites—every fallen soul, soldier or civilian, is honored properly. This city will not fall to fear while we still draw breath."
They saluted, though some hesitated, knowing their commander rarely left a battlefield so soon after the fight.
Kane stepped up beside her, silent but steady. She didn't look at him when she spoke, her eyes still on the shattered streets.
"We're going back to the capital," she said. "Straight to Linalee and the King. The countermeasures must be in place before another rift like this opens—no delays, no compromises." Her jaw tightened. "Even if it means offending every noble in the court."
Kane gave a small, approving nod.
Arasha then looked at Kane and, with a heavy heart, asked him to use his talisman to take them to the capital.
He closed his fingers around it, the magic in the charm already stirring like heat under his skin.
"Hold on to me," he said simply.
A heartbeat later, the battlefield and its broken streets blurred into a wash of light—then vanished, leaving only the crackle of teleportation magic in their wake.