The candle flickered. Shadows stretched and shifted across the walls, bending with the rhythm of a quiet, steady flame. On the desk, ink spread in strange patterns across the parchment.
Alex's quill moved slowly, deliberately.
Symbols flowed from his mind—no, not his mind. From somewhere deeper. Dreams he never fully remembered, only the lingering pressure they left behind. Like echoes pressed into his bones. He had no name for it at first, but over time, he began calling it The Oracle.
He didn't know why.
The room remained still. Shelves sagged under the weight of unread books, and sat untouched, gathering dust as though forgotten by time itself. At the centre of it all, behind his desk, a sword hung on the centre wall.
Not for decoration.
It was too massive to lift. Too sharp to dull. Darker than shadow, darker than night itself. It didn't feel like an object so much as a presence—silent, watchful, waiting.
Alex didn't know where it came from. Only that it had always been there.
The silence broke.
The door slammed open.
Ciara stepped inside, her cloak brushing the floor behind her. Her presence filled the room instantly—sharp, controlled.
"You're writing again," she said, walking toward the desk. "Still chasing riddles?"
Alex didn't look up.
She reached out, snatching the page from his desk. Her eyes scanned the symbols, her expression tightening into a faint scoff.
"This is madness wrapped in mystery. If you're trying to impress the Scholars, they won't care."
"It's not for them."
Ciara's gaze lifted, locking onto him. "Then who, Alex?" she asked, stepping closer. "Because you don't even read it yourself."
He paused, the quill hovering slightly above the parchment.
"I feel it."
Before she could respond, footsteps echoed down the corridor—fast, unsteady.
The door burst open again.
A soldier stumbled inside, breath ragged, armour stained with blood.
"Commander Ciarmour he gasped. "The northern gate—it's under siege. Beasts… dozens—no… hundreds. They're coming fast!"
Ciara's expression hardened instantly.
"Archers to the walls. Hold formation. I'm moving out." She turned toward the door without hesitation, then paused briefly, glancing back over her shoulder. "You coming, or staying buried in this tomb?"
Alex finally lifted his eyes.
Calm. Focused. Something deeper lingered behind them—quiet, but unmistakable.
"I'll be there."
Ciara's boots struck the corridor floor as she moved at speed, already issuing commands to passing soldiers.
The messenger hesitated near the doorway, watching Alex.
"Sir… we could use every hand."
Alex rose from his seat.
The candle behind him flickered again, its flame bending unnaturally as the shadows in the room began to shift. They stretched across the floor, curling subtly toward the chained sword mounted on the wall.
Alex stepped forward.
The chains loosened.
Metal links fell away with a soft, deliberate clink—no struggle, no force. Just release, as if responding to his presence alone.
He reached out and took the sword.
It was heavy—impossibly so—but in his grip, it felt balanced, familiar… like something that belonged there.
"I'll be there," he said again, more certain this time.
And then he moved.
The shadows around him deepened, folding inward as his form slipped from sight. In a breath, he was gone.
The northern gate thundered with the sound of battle.
Peter stood atop the wall, gripping his hammer as faint energy pulsed along its surface; his armour was streaked with the remnants of earlier clashes.
Beside him, Jack adjusted his stance, blade humming faintly as tension ran through the air. Neither of them looked uncertain.
Below, the beasts surged.
Twisted, fanged, and unnatural, they moved with a single purpose—relentless, driven, almost like something had stripped them of anything human and left only instinct behind.
At the centre of the chaos, a man stood unmoving, declaring himself the God of War. Few believed him.
Fewer dared challenge the title.
A sharp shift in the air signalled Ciara's arrival.
She landed nesignalledront lines, daggers already drawn, posture steady and unyielding.
"We hold. No retreat," she ordered.
Peter let out a short breath, half a laugh, half frustration. "Easy to say when we're the ones holding the line."
Ciara didn't respond.
Instead, her shadow shifted.
It trembled—then split.
From within it, another presence emerged.
Alex stepped forward.
Sword in hand.
Eyes steady.
Silent.