Chapter 9: Blackridge Tension
The wind howled through the narrow battlements of Blackridge Fortress, carrying with it the stench of wet stone, rusted blood, and something fouler still—dragon rot.
Jean stood atop the highest watchtower, cloak fluttering behind her, as her eyes swept across the fog-draped valley. The fortress itself was ancient, built in the era of the First Blades—one of the last remaining border relics before the Luther-Magistery accords were signed.
Now it stood between war and worse.
Below, soldiers of both factions patrolled in uneasy tandem. Luther Knights wore silver and crimson; Magistery Wardens glimmered in robes threaded with arcane glyphs. They did not speak to one another. Not unless ordered.
And in the middle of it all, Jean and Ryan.
"I'm surprised you're still here," Jean said, glancing sideways.
Ryan leaned against the stone ledge, arms folded, gaze distant. "The dragons are waking. I'm not about to miss that."
Jean frowned. "Is that all this is to you? A front-row seat?"
"No," Ryan said. "It's a gamble. A shared stage."
He turned to face her.
"I don't like your Clan, Jean. I don't like the blood games, the thrones, or your iron-eyed grandfather."
Jean said nothing.
"But I respect you. And if there's one person who might survive what's coming… it's you."
Before Jean could respond, a horn blared from below.
Then a scream.
Then flames.
---
Moments later…
The valley erupted in chaos. From the tree line, draconic beasts—scaled, wingless things corrupted by ancient magic—emerged in waves. Their breath reeked of decay and old ash, their eyes burning with mindless hate.
"Dracokin!" someone shouted.
Jean was already descending the wall, Whitney bounding beside her. Her blade sang as she leapt into the fray, cutting through the first monster with a strike of pure, radiant aura.
Ryan descended a moment later, his hands pulsing with runes.
"Knights to the left!" Jean barked. "Wardens to the right! Hold the line!"
She moved like lightning—graceful, controlled, unstoppable. Her aura radiated so fiercely it lit the battlefield like dawn breaking through smoke.
And for a moment, the Luther and Magistery forces fought together—not as rivals, but as warriors beneath one banner.
Survival.
---
At the rear, watching from the shadows, a figure in black armor stood beside a twisted dracokin, untouched by fire.
Raven Luther watched her cousin lead.
"She's… grown," Loric said, appearing beside her.
"Let her," Raven murmured. "Let them see her shine."
Then she raised her hand. Magic—not hers—etched with forbidden glyphs, ignited in her palm.
"And then we break her."
She released the spell.
Far above, in the clouds, something screamed.
Something with wings.
---
Jean heard it first—above the clamor, a shriek that tore through the clouds like a blade through silk. She turned upward.
And saw the shadow descend.
A skyborn dracokin, armored in blacksteel, talons crackling with red lightning.
It dove toward the tower.
"Freya!" Jean shouted.
But the mage-knight was already in motion, glyphs spinning around her like shields. "Go! We'll handle the ground!"
Jean didn't hesitate. With Whitney leaping beside her, she charged up the wall, blade glowing gold, eyes locked on the skyborne monster.
She leapt into the air.
And met the beast head-on in a storm of light and fire.
---
Deep beneath Blackridge, buried in the sealed catacombs, something ancient opened its eyes.
Chains rattled.
Rocks trembled.
And in the dark, a voice whispered:
"Light… finally comes to die."
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