The first day after the battle was claimed by silence.
It wasn't the absence of sound, but the kind of quiet born when exhaustion dulls even victory. The fortress of Aetherreach—still bearing the scars of the fight—became a place of rebuilding. The air smelled faintly of worked steel and fresh mortar, mingled with the sharper tang of salves and herbal poultices from Selene's makeshift infirmary.
Dragoons moved in steady lines, hauling stone, reinforcing collapsed sections, and clearing away the twisted remnants of demon flesh. Commanders oversaw the work without needing to bark orders—their presence alone kept the momentum.
Alter spent the morning walking the walls, speaking little, but every soldier felt the weight of his gaze—a silent acknowledgment of their endurance.
By midday, the wind shifted, carrying the smell of clean snow from the north. In the courtyard, Selene knelt beside Vaelen, unwrapping the sling from his arm. "Better," she murmured after a faint pulse of golden light flowed from her hands. "No more strain until the next battle."
Vaelen gave her a respectful nod, while Elira lingered just close enough to watch, her eyes soft but alert.
Elsewhere, Rhed and Talia were sparring—not for practice, but for the comfort of familiar movement. The clash of their weapons was more like a conversation than a contest, each exchange carrying unspoken reassurance. They broke apart laughing, both panting, and returned to sharpening their blades together.
Near the main hall, Veyna leaned back against Jaris's shoulder as they shared a waterskin. Her eyes followed the rebuilding crews, and she murmured, "Feels almost normal, if you forget what's coming."
"Almost," Jaris agreed, his free hand idly tracing circles along her gauntlet.
Vellmar and Lucina stayed near the northern gate, watching the road in companionable silence. Lucina's breath still frosted faintly in the air, the lingering cold from her magic mixing with the winter wind. Erndor and Selin inspected supply crates, the two moving with a precision that suggested their minds were already thinking about the next deployment.
By nightfall of the second day, the fortress felt alive again. Fires burned in the braziers, light spilling over repaired walls. The soldiers—Dragoons, Commanders, and Mythral Dawn alike—gathered in the courtyard for a shared meal. It was nothing fancy, just hot broth, bread, and roasted game, but the warmth cut through the fatigue. Conversations grew louder. Laughter returned.
Alter sat with Selene beneath the shadow of a rebuilt tower, their plates barely touched. "They're ready," she said, watching the recruits swap stories.
"They're recovering," he corrected, though the faint smile at the corner of his mouth betrayed his agreement.
On the third day, the mood sharpened. Training resumed—not as grueling as camp drills, but enough to keep the reflexes alive. The sound of steel and the flare of elemental magic filled the courtyard once more. Archers practiced volleys into the empty hills beyond the wall. Mages shaped controlled bursts of fire, ice, and lightning into formation drills.
By evening, scouts returned from the passes with reports—movement in the north. A force was gathering beyond the range of sight.
As the war council assembled in the great hall, Alter looked over the faces of those who had fought beside him in Aetherreach. The respite had done its work. Armor was repaired. Wounds were mended. The light in their eyes burned steady.
This wasn't just a force ready to march again—it was a force that knew it could win.
The fourth morning broke under a slate-colored sky, the kind that promised snow without yet surrendering to it. The gates of Aetherreach groaned open with a low, metallic complaint, spilling the army out onto the frostbitten plains.
Boots crunched against ice-sheathed grass. The steam of breath from hundreds of soldiers drifted upward like a ghostly fog, carried away on the northbound wind. Dragon banners snapped in the air above them, their colors vivid against the muted sky, the spiral sigils of the Dragoons blazing alongside the crests of the Mythral Dawn and the royal insignia of Drakareth.
Alter led the center column, his armor catching pale light in molten ripples. Selene rode just behind, eyes scanning the horizon. Caelum and Sorei paced ahead with the vanguard, their movements crisp, precise. The rest of the Commanders were spread throughout the formation, keeping their divisions tight and disciplined.
The objective was clear—destroy the riftcore in the northern plains before it could flood the battlefield with more Demon Gods. Scouts had returned with troubling reports: hundreds of acolytes in blackened robes circling the unstable mass of crimson light, their chants rising like a funeral dirge. They weren't simply guarding the riftcore—they were feeding it. Sacrificing themselves in a slow, deliberate ritual to anchor its expansion and call forth horrors from beyond.
The march pressed onward for hours. The air grew colder, the wind sharper, biting at exposed skin. By midday, the land flattened into an endless stretch of hard, frozen plain. In the distance, jagged pillars of obsidian jutted from the earth at crooked angles, each one etched with pulsating infernal runes. The closer they came, the more the air seemed to bend, rippling like heat haze despite the freezing wind.
Then they heard it—the low, resonant hum of the riftcore. It was a sound that bypassed the ears entirely and nested deep in the bones, vibrating through armor and flesh alike. Each step forward made it louder, until the hum became an oppressive thrum, as if the very earth was groaning under the strain.
From the rise ahead, they saw it.
The riftcore stood in the center of a blackened crater, a massive sphere of molten-red light suspended above the ground by writhing chains of void energy. Around it, hundreds of acolytes knelt in perfect concentric rings, their faces hidden beneath hoods. At intervals, one would step forward into the light—skin blistering, flesh unraveling—until their body was pulled into the core with a sound like tearing silk. Each sacrifice made the rift pulse brighter, its chains stretching further into the sky.
Above the core, faint outlines moved within the haze—half-formed Demon Gods pressing against the barrier of reality, their shapes clawing for entry.
Alter's gaze narrowed. "If we don't end this fast, we're not fighting one Demon God. We're fighting an army of them."
The Commanders began issuing orders. Caelum's voice cut through the wind, sending the vanguard into a tightening wedge. Garran's Pyre Division fanned out to the left flank, flame magic already sparking along their lines. Veyna's crystal mages formed the right flank, their staffs glowing with refracted light.
Dragons wheeled overhead—four in total—circling in loose formation, their roars rolling across the plains like distant thunder. The sight alone shook the nearest rings of acolytes, but the chanting never stopped.
Alter shifted Starsever in his grip, the weapon's edge humming with restrained energy. "We break their lines, crush the acolytes, and collapse the core. Nothing leaves this field."
The air thickened, heavy with magic and killing intent. Ahead, the acolytes began to rise in unison, movements sharp, heads turning toward the advancing army. Dark blades materialized in their hands, and the obsidian pillars flared to life, casting jagged shadows across the snow.
The first horn sounded—low, drawn-out, and final.
The battle for the riftcore had begun.
The horn's echo had barely faded before the ground erupted in motion. The Dragoons surged forward first, their lines a storm of steel and elemental light. Boots pounded frozen earth, the air alive with the war-cry of a hundred and fifty dragon-blooded warriors. Behind them, the Mythral Dawn pressed in—a wall of coordinated precision, Commanders barking orders as their formations snapped into place.
The acolytes met them like a black tide. Their blades clashed in perfect, unnatural rhythm, each strike accompanied by a whispering chant that made the air taste like ash. When they fell, they dissolved into cinders, their ashes spiraling upward toward the riftcore in a slow, deliberate pull.
Alter broke through the first rank in three movements—Starfall arcs that carved lines of molten gold through the enemy, leaving bodies collapsing before they could even scream. He didn't slow, didn't falter. The closer they came to the riftcore, the more intense the hum became, drilling into the mind like a war drum.
Overhead, the dragons dove in coordinated sweeps, fire and lightning scouring the outer rings of the chanting acolytes. Even so, for every one destroyed, another stepped forward from the rear lines to take their place, blades raised and voices joining the endless ritual.
Selene's voice rang out over the din, amplified by wind magic. "Left flank—push through! Break their line before they reform!" Caelum's spear unit crashed into the gap, Sorei moving with him in perfect synchrony, her wind magic catching his every thrust and carrying it deeper into enemy ranks.
The Dragoons carved a bloody wedge toward the center, elemental runes flaring along their weapons. Rhed and Talia moved like wildfire through the right flank, each marker detonation clearing space for the others to press forward. Veyna's crystal barriers rose and shattered in controlled bursts, blocking incoming magic long enough for Elira and Vaelen to strike unseen from behind enemy lines.
The riftcore pulsed violently. The chains tethering it to the obsidian pillars began to vibrate, cracks spiderwebbing through the runes. Above it, the blurred silhouettes pressing against reality's veil grew sharper—horns, claws, and burning eyes taking form.
Alter's grip tightened. "Too slow. They're forcing it."
A final scream rose from the acolytes as dozens stepped into the light at once. The core spasmed outward in a shockwave of crimson flame, and something slipped through.
The Demon God landed like a meteor, its bulk cratering the ground. Smoke and cinders rolled off its scaled form, four arms each gripping a jagged blade. Its head snapped toward the army, a mouth like a furnace opening to roar in a sound that was part beast, part breaking stone.
Alter's voice cut like thunder across the field. "Dragoons—on me!"
They broke from their lines instantly, converging on his position without hesitation. One hundred and fifty warriors formed a tightening arc, each raising their weapons as Alter lowered into stance. Lightning coiled along his blade, wind sharpening its edge until the air screamed around it.
"Sky Piercer—synchronize!"
Golden lightning flared from every Dragoon's weapon, each thrust aligning with his in a heartbeat of perfect unity. Alter's voice rose above the rift's howl—
"Sky Piercer!"
One hundred and fifty-one lances of lightning tore forward as one. The Demon God's armor split under the converging strikes, its bellow warping into a choked, guttural roar as the combined force drilled deep into its core. The blast punched through its back in a burst of molten light, the shockwave flattening the nearest ranks of acolytes.
The monster staggered, its body convulsing as cracks of white-hot energy split its frame from within. Then, with a final shudder, it collapsed into the snow, its flesh unraveling into streams of black ash that spiraled upward—straight into the riftcore.
Alter's jaw set. The core had fed on the death of its own servant. The hum grew louder.
The battlefield went still for the span of a single breath. Snow and ash drifted in slow arcs through the air, the silence broken only by the hiss of molten furrows cooling in the frost. Then, the riftcore pulsed—once, twice—and the world screamed.
A shockwave burst outward, flinging bodies from both sides. The obsidian pillars anchoring the core split down the middle with a sound like thunder cracking stone, and the air around it turned into a spinning vortex of blood-colored light.
The ground began to slide.
Not crumble. Not collapse. Slide.
As though the earth itself was being pulled toward the core's center, the battlefield became a slope, dragging soldiers, corpses, and shattered weapons toward the churning sphere of light. The pull was relentless, growing stronger by the second. Acolyte remains were the first to vanish, drawn into the heart of the rift and shredded into streaks of red essence that vanished into the blinding glow.
"Hold the line!" Selene's voice cut through the chaos, her wind magic slamming down into a wide barrier that slowed the slide of dozens of warriors. Caelum drove his spear into the ground, anchoring himself and Sorei against the pull, while Veyna's crystal formations locked into the soil like jagged teeth to brace the Dragoons.
Alter planted Starsever into the earth, sparks snapping along the blade as he channeled energy into the runes. His gaze never left the core.
"It's feeding," he said, voice low but carrying. "The death of its own kind… the essence of the slain Demon God… it's using it to tear the rift wider."
Above the core, reality looked like water boiling in reverse—shapes pressed against it, some massive and hunched, others serpentine and long, their edges blurred by the shifting veil. One claw the size of a fortress gate pushed through, straining against the half-formed breach.
"Selene!" Alter barked. "Get the Commanders to cover the flanks! Dragoons—on me!"
They moved without hesitation, one hundred and fifty dragon-blooded warriors peeling away from the struggling lines to form a tightening circle around him. Elemental sigils flared across the formation—fire blooming in synchronized arcs, wind sharpening its edges, lightning building in their weapons until the air hummed like a storm caught in chains.
"We strike together. We don't give it time to bring another through." Alter's eyes narrowed, golden irises burning. "On my mark—hit the core with everything you have."
The pull grew stronger. The snow at their feet was gone now, ripped away into the crimson maelstrom. The edges of the battlefield began to crumble, entire chunks of rock tearing free and spiraling upward into the vortex like meteors in reverse.
The Dragoons' breaths fell into rhythm with his, a single pulse of resolve in the storm.
Alter raised Starsever. Energy flared from his stance, a corona of light stretching skyward. "Mark."
The battlefield lit like a second sunrise.
One hundred and fifty-one strikes landed at once, lances of raw elemental force converging on the heart of the riftcore. The ground split in a deafening crack, light blinding as the sphere buckled inward, shrinking, twisting, fighting against the collapse.
The claw above roared—a sound that rattled bones and cracked the sky—but it was already too late. The Dragoons' combined strike tore through the tethering runes, shattering them into shards of molten black. The rift convulsed, the light collapsing inward with a scream that sounded like a thousand voices dragged into nothingness.
Then—silence.
The pull stopped. Snow fell straight again.
The riftcore was gone. Only a smoking crater remained, the edges slick with strange red frost.
Alter let his sword rest at his side, his breathing steady but heavy. Around him, the Dragoons began to exhale as one, the tension bleeding from their shoulders in waves. Selene approached from the flank, her eyes scanning the crater with a wariness that said she didn't trust the quiet.
"This was one of many," she murmured. "And they know we're coming."
Alter's gaze stayed on the smoking wound in the earth. "Good," he said, voice like steel. "Let them prepare."
The cold wind off the northern plains carried the smell of iron and smoke. Even after the riftcore's destruction, the air seemed thick—tainted by something that clung to the lungs and soured the breath. The crater still steamed behind them, but Alter's focus was already miles ahead.
A group of scouts broke from the treeline to the east, their mounts kicking up plumes of frost as they closed in. Their armor was dulled from travel, their cloaks ragged from wind-whip, but the urgency in their eyes cut sharper than any blade. They dismounted before they even reached the command line, dropping to one knee before Alter and Selene.
"My lord," the lead scout said, voice low but steady. "We've sighted it. The Rift Spire."
The name alone was enough to draw the attention of every Commander within earshot. The man reached into his satchel and pulled free a hastily sketched map, its charcoal lines jagged with haste. At the northern edge of the plains, drawn as a black monolith, was the structure—spiraling upward like an obsidian fang, its base surrounded by concentric rings of what looked like trenches, siege wards, and sacrificial circles.
"It's worse than we thought," the scout continued. "The spire is feeding directly off the land itself. Every tree within five leagues is dead, the rivers black with runoff. They're… sacrificing their own to keep it growing. Dozens at a time. And…" He hesitated, his eyes shifting. "We saw more riftcores tethered to its base. At least three, maybe more."
The Dragoons nearby stiffened, hands tightening on weapon hilts. Caelum stepped forward, his expression grim. "How many defenders?"
"Enough," the scout answered darkly. "At least three legions of acolytes. Demonspawn of varying ranks. And the… smell." His voice faltered. "There's something else there. Bigger. Watching."
Alter studied the map for only a few seconds before folding it and handing it to Selene. "We move now. The longer that spire stands, the more riftcores it will birth. We cannot allow another surge."
Selene's eyes swept over the assembled forces. "We push hard and fast. The plains are open—no cover. We'll be in their sight for the final ten miles."
"That's fine," Alter said, stepping forward. "Let them see us. Let them know their end is walking toward them."
The order to march rippled through the camp. The Dragoons moved with efficient precision, armor buckling into place, weapons tested, elemental runes checked and re-etched. Commanders barked last-minute instructions, their voices carrying over the frost-laden wind.
Beyond the human forces, the dragons began to rise. Their wings beat against the air, each thrust a sound like war drums in the sky. Ignivar, molten light shimmering between his obsidian scales, circled overhead before descending to match Alter's stride. Other dragons—crystal-winged, storm-eyed, flame-breathed—fell into formation, casting their shadows long over the frozen plains.
The march began at a steady pace, the snow crunching under hundreds of boots, claws, and hooves. Every step north was heavier, as though the land itself were resisting their approach. The horizon ahead shimmered—not with heat, but with the faint pulse of the Rift Spire's black light.
Hours passed. The air grew colder, the wind sharper, carrying with it the faint, distant sound of chanting. It was low, rhythmic, almost inaudible at first—but as the day wore on, it grew louder, the syllables alien and guttural, vibrating in the bones.
When they crested the final ridge before the plains proper, the full sight of the Rift Spire met them. It was worse than the scouts had drawn—its base sprawling like the roots of some nightmare tree, pulsing with veins of red energy that spiderwebbed outward into the ground. Each pulse seemed to dim the daylight. The trenches surrounding it crawled with movement—thousands of acolytes in formation, their black robes rippling in the wind, their faces masked in bone and metal.
And above them all, at the peak of the spire, something vast and indistinct moved. Its shape was obscured by the shadow cast from the structure itself, but its presence pressed down like a mountain on the chest.
Alter didn't break stride. His voice was calm when he spoke, but it carried with sovereign weight. "This ends here. We strike until there's nothing left to strike."
The Dragoons and Commanders fell into their assault formations. The dragons took to the air, their roars shaking the ice from the rocks. Elemental light began to burn along the line as the first runes flared to life.
The Rift Spire loomed ahead, its pulse quickening—as if it knew they were coming.
The Rift Spire loomed ahead—its silhouette stabbing the storm-streaked sky like a shard of night. The air itself seemed wrong here, rippling with distortion as if reality frayed around the citadel. Even before they reached the killing field, the ground was already scored with trenches and blackened scorch pits from battles past.
Alter stood at the head of the combined forces, Sovereign aura radiating in golden arcs across the field. Around him, three hundred Dragoons formed into their spear-line formations—each one gripping Riftcarver, the weapon's obsidian edge catching the fractured light. The engraved runes along every polearm shimmered faintly, already tuned to the wielder's elemental affinity.
The commanders took their positions alongside the Dragoon lines, also armed for war, but it was the Dragoons' uniformity that stole attention. Their stances mirrored Alter's own—balanced, steady, every Riftcarver angled forward in perfect alignment.
A horn blast ripped across the plains.
The Rift Spire's defenders moved first. From the trench lines ahead, waves of demonspawn surged forward, their claws scraping against the jagged stone. Behind them, siege pylons of living bone flared with abyssal energy, sending crimson projectiles screaming across the battlefield.
"Markers!" Alter's voice cracked like thunder.
As one, three hundred Riftcarvers struck the ground or slashed through the air, embedding elemental runic markers mid-combat. Lightning markers flared along the left flank, wind markers surged in the center, and fire markers roared to life on the right.
"Advance!"
The Dragoons moved as a single organism—polearms stabbing, sweeping, and thrusting in seamless rhythm. Every strike was designed to pierce or cleave, driving demon spawn back while the markers detonated in layered bursts. The sound was deafening—CRACK, WHUMP, FWOOOSH—a battlefield symphony of destruction.
From the command flank, Selene called for the Sky Piercer Formation. At her signal, the front ranks lowered their Riftcarvers and channeled their lightning markers into the spearpoints. A volley of simultaneous thrusts sent a wall of crackling bolts tearing through the enemy's forward wave, leaving a smoking gap in the trench line.
But the Rift Spire answered.
The ground trembled as massive gate-creatures—chitinous juggernauts with plated skulls—emerged from beneath the trenches, swinging spiked limbs wide enough to crush entire squads. Abyssal archers mounted along their backs loosed volleys of jagged black arrows into the sky.
"Form two! Engage!"
The Dragoons shifted instantly, Riftcarvers spinning into defensive rotations. Those on the flanks hooked the polearms around the juggernauts' limbs, locking them in place, while the center ranks struck at exposed joints with synchronized Sky Piercer thrusts. Runic detonations followed each stab, cracking carapace and spilling black ichor onto the field.
Amid the chaos, Alter broke forward alone, Starsever still sheathed, his own Riftcarver materializing in a flash of sovereign flame. His first thrust obliterated a juggernaut's faceplate; his second split the creature from jaw to sternum in a burst of molten light.
The defenders roared in fury, but the Dragoon line did not break.
Instead, they pressed deeper toward the trenches—every movement unified, every strike of the Riftcarver cutting a swath closer to the heart of the Rift Spire's defenses. The killing field had begun.
The killing field was a furnace of steel and blood.
Each step forward sank into ash and cracked bone, the stench of burning ichor heavy in every breath. The Dragoon lines pushed deeper, the rhythm of their polearms relentless—thrust, sweep, detonate—until the trenches loomed within reach.
Then, the Spire roared.
The obsidian tower pulsed like a heart, sending a shockwave that ripped through the ground. The air turned heavy, pressing down on armor and lungs alike. From the jagged battlements above, vast runic seals flared in unison—sickly green, deep crimson, void-black—and reality itself warped at their center.
A hail of abyssal fireballs the size of war wagons screamed downward.
"Shields!" Selene's voice rang clear.
The Dragoons in the forward ranks spun Riftcarvers in a defensive circle, runes along their shafts flaring into overlapping elemental barriers. Fire met light, shock met steel—the impacts detonated in concussive waves, throwing dirt and shattered demonspawn high into the air.
Before the ground could settle, the Spire's gates yawned wide.
From their depths came the Reaper Beasts: skeletal titans clad in plates of fused armor, their ribcages stuffed with writhing demon larvae. Each carried a cleaver long enough to shear a siege tower in half. Behind them surged a tide of shrieking lesser fiends, driven forward by whip-armed overseers.
Alter's aura ignited like a second sun.
"Flanks, collapse inward! Center, with me!"
The Dragoon line shifted—two hundred Riftcarvers folding into a spearhead formation. The air cracked with the charge as their runic markers detonated in cascading bursts ahead of their thrusts. Juggernauts fell screaming, fiends were launched into the air in pieces, and still the formation held.
One of the Reaper Beasts crashed down in front of Alter, cleaver swinging. He caught the strike on his Riftcarver's shaft, the impact sending a tremor through the earth, before vaulting up the weapon's length and driving his spearpoint into the monster's skull. A flash of golden light blew its head apart, scattering the larvae within into smoking dust.
But the Spire wasn't finished.
Above, the largest runic seal yet ignited—its circle wide enough to engulf the sky. Space tore open at its center, revealing an endless maw of serrated teeth and writhing tongues.
Selene's breath caught. "That's… a conduit to the Rift."
Black lightning rained down from the tear, turning friend and foe alike into ash. Chasms split open across the killing field, swallowing squads whole. Demonic laughter rolled from the rift like a drumbeat, low and mocking.
Alter didn't hesitate.
"Form Three! Full push!"
The Dragoon spearhead ignited as every Riftcarver flared with maximum charge, runes along their hafts blazing with synchronized light. Three hundred voices roared as one—and the battlefield surged forward like a tidal wave, smashing through the last of the outer defenses.
But beyond the trenches waited the true heart of the Spire's wrath.
The trench collapsed in on itself as Alter's Riftcarver tore a molten gash through its wall. Earthen ramparts crumbled, burying the last of the defenders beneath a rain of scorched stone. The moment the gap opened, the Dragoons poured through—three hundred spears angled like the teeth of a charging dragon, the ground shuddering under their combined advance.
From the shadows of the Spire's courtyard, the Inner Guard emerged.
They weren't ordinary demonspawn. These were the Vyrak'tor, bred from the marrow of extinct war titans, each twice the height of a man and plated in scaled obsidian armor that shimmered like oil on water. Their weapons were cruel things—hooked glaives with serrated edges that could tear a Dragoon from formation with a single snag. The air around them shimmered from the weight of their killing intent.
And behind them… came the lieutenants.
Three figures stepped forward from the base of the Spire, their forms shifting between demon and armored wraith. Each radiated the aura of a mid-tier Demon God, and their voices overlapped in a single, mocking chorus.
"The Sovereign comes to die at our gate."
Alter's eyes narrowed. "We'll see who leaves breathing."
The Dragoons locked into a wedge formation, their Riftcarvers blazing with synchronized runic light. The Commanders spread along the flanks—Selene's wind-infused strikes carving lanes through the lesser Vyrak'tor, Caelum's Skyreach surges launching himself into aerial sweeps, Arinelle's spirit-summons battering the enemy ranks with ethereal beasts. Garran's pyre-breath cut through armor, and Veyna's crystal barriers shattered glaives before they could hook a comrade.
The first lieutenant moved like a flicker of shadow, glaive slicing for Alter's throat. He met it mid-swing, Riftcarver shuddering with the force of the block, before spinning into a reverse thrust that grazed the demon's shoulder—black ichor hissing as it hit the ground.
The second slammed a clawed hand into the earth, summoning a fissure of molten void that split the Dragoon formation in two. Selene leapt the gap instantly, her Riftcarver spinning in a cyclone of wind that hurled the demon backward into the path of Vaelen, whose spear drove through its thigh with a burst of lightning.
The third lieutenant towered over Vellmar, swinging a blade like a slab of midnight. Vellmar caught it in both hands, his Zero Distance thrust detonating inside its chest cavity—sending the monster reeling into the path of Nyssa, whose runic explosions caved in its plated back.
But the Spire was far from breaking.
Runic arrays lit up along the inner walls, each one tethered to the Rift high above. Bolts of void energy fell in patterns too precise to be random—aimed at the Commanders, at the Dragoon officers, at Alter himself.
"Break the walls!" Alter's voice cracked like thunder.
Dragoons with explosive runes surged forward, planting their markers at the base of the walls. The synchronized detonation that followed was deafening—stone, ichor, and twisted steel raining down into the courtyard.
The breach exposed the base of the Spire… and what lay beneath it.
A massive, pulsating knot of voidflesh and black crystal—the Spire Heart—beat like a living organ, tethered by chains of solid night to the Rift above. Each pulse sent another wave of lesser fiends spilling into the courtyard.
The three lieutenants roared in unison, their forms swelling, armor cracking away as demonic flesh and extra limbs burst outward. Their killing aura intensified, a pressure so heavy even the most seasoned Dragoon felt their knees falter for half a heartbeat.
Alter planted his Riftcarver in the ground, its runes flaring with golden light. "Form up! No one breaks until these three are ash!"
And with that, the battlefield convulsed into chaos. Riftcarvers clashed with glaives, spears with claws, runic detonations lighting the killing ground like a storm of suns. The lieutenants struck with the precision of executioners, but the Dragoons and Commanders answered with synchronized fury—every strike, every guard, every step feeding into the rhythm of survival and slaughter.
At the edge of the chaos, the Spire Heart pulsed faster. The Rift above widened, shadows writhing with shapes too vast to yet step through.
They had minutes—maybe less—before whatever waited beyond arrived.
The first lieutenant lunged for Alter again, glaive carving a black arc that split the air with a shriek. Alter didn't yield ground—he stepped inside the swing, Riftcarver snapping up in a vertical guard that caught the haft just beneath the blade. The impact was a thunderclap, but Alter was already moving, pivoting his weight to wrench the weapon aside.
The demon overcompensated, its guard flaring open.
Alter's counter came in three strokes—Sky Piercer: Celestial Thrust to drive the tip of his Riftcarver through the demon's shoulder, followed by a rising cut that split its helmet in two, then a downward slam that pinned it to the courtyard stones. The runes along his blade ignited, light searing through the lieutenant's body until it burst in a spray of burning ichor.
Across the battlefield, the second and third lieutenants converged on the Dragoons, forcing the Commanders to coordinate under suffocating pressure.
"Form Circle Seven!" Selene's voice cut through the chaos.
The Dragoons closed ranks instantly, spears and Riftcarvers outward, shields locking into a revolving wall. Caelum and Sorei swept overhead, raining lightning and wind to drive the demons inward toward the circle's waiting blades. Garran and Vellmar hit next—fire and brute force detonating into exposed joints—while Vaelen and Elira used precision thrusts to pierce tendon and plate.
The second lieutenant roared, swinging in wide arcs to break free, but the circle adjusted fluidly. Rhed's spear slammed down on its wrist, shattering bone, while Talia vaulted off his shoulder to plant her Riftcarver through the back of its skull.
On the opposite side, the third lieutenant slammed into Nyssa's barrier, expecting it to shatter. Instead, the barrier rippled—absorbing the force—before snapping forward to rebound the strike. That half-second of recoil was all Selin needed to vanish into the demon's shadow and drive his blade straight into its heart. Lucina and Vellmar were already there to finish it, their Zero Distance and icebound strikes detonating inside the wound.
Two bodies hit the stones almost at once, dissolving into black vapor.
Alter was already moving toward the Dragoons before the last one fell, wiping ichor from his blade. His golden gaze locked on the Spire Heart, its throbbing now frantic, the Rift above it churning as if sensing the loss of its defenders.
"The walls are down. The heart's next."
No one argued. The Dragoons re-formed, Commanders falling in beside them, the Spire's killing ground now their path forward.
They surged as one—Alter at the spearpoint, Dragoons and Commanders fanning behind him in a lethal wedge. The inner courtyard of the Rift Spire boiled with war, its obsidian flagstones cracked and bleeding with molten runes. Every step toward the Heart brought the pulse louder, a deep bass thrum that rattled bone and mind alike.
The Spire Heart itself loomed ahead—a grotesque fusion of crystal and flesh suspended in midair, veins of red light pumping raw demonic essence up into the Rift above. Every pulse spat sparks into the sky, each one birthing a distorted ripple of reality.
The defenders didn't give ground willingly. Elite demon guards—hulking, horned brutes clad in scale-like armor—threw themselves into the advancing wedge. Their weapons rang against Dragoons' blades, their roars drowned by the war cry that rose from the unit.
Selene cleaved a guard's weapon in half with a single lightning-imbued swing, spinning to shield Talia's flank. Veyna's crystal lances rained from above, each strike finding gaps in demonic plate. Garran and Rhed smashed a path forward with sheer force, the ground cracking under their combined strikes.
But the Heart fought back.
From its core, tendrils of living shadow lashed out, snaring two Dragoons and trying to drag them into the air. Nyssa's barrier flared just in time, cutting the tendrils before they could reach the Rift. Caelum and Sorei dove into the gap, their coordinated twin strike severing another mass of writhing flesh from the crystal frame.
Alter moved through it all like a storm contained in flesh. Every cut he made tore another seam in the Spire's defenses—Sky Piercer bursts punching through shield walls, Starsever's edge drawing arcs of sovereign gold that carved clean through demonsteel. Each step brought him closer to the Heart's beating core.
The final ring of guards fell back—not in surrender, but to form a last-ditch wall around the Heart. Their weapons burned with stolen divine energy, and their formation locked like the teeth of a closing jaw.
"Break them," Alter commanded, voice a low growl.
The Dragoons obeyed. The wedge fractured into two flanks, collapsing the guard wall from both sides. Selin and Elira slipped through the chaos like twin blades of shadow, cutting down key sentries before they could rally. Lucina froze the ground solid beneath the guards' feet, locking them in place long enough for Vaelen's spear to punch through three at once.
Then the way was open.
Alter didn't slow. He vaulted the last steps, Starsever igniting in a flare of golden light that matched the pulse of the Spire Heart's own beat. One final thrust—Sky Piercer: Celestial Thrust—drove through crystal, flesh, and the black veins within.
The Spire Heart screamed.
Light and shadow erupted in a single, blinding wave that tore outward across the battlefield. The Rift above convulsed, the massive hole in the sky shrinking in on itself, pulling tendrils of demonic energy back like a tide. The fortress shuddered as if it might collapse beneath their feet.
"Fall back!" Selene shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos.
They retreated in formation, the Spire's collapse echoing behind them—a cathedral of obsidian dying in a roar of shattered stone and unraveling magic.
When the dust settled, the Rift was gone. The plains beyond were littered with demon corpses, the air tasting faintly of scorched iron and ash. The northern sky, for the first time in months, was clear.
Alter stood at the edge of the ruin, Starsever still in hand, breathing steady.
"One more wound closed," he said quietly. "But the heart of the war still beats."
The war table inside the command pavilion was a scarred, blackened slab of stone hauled from the Rift Spire's ruins, still warm beneath their hands. The air carried the tang of ash and metal, mingling with the muted murmurs of officers and healers tending to the wounded outside.
Alter stood at the head of the table, Starsever sheathed at his back, his armor still streaked with the dark residue of the Heart's collapse. The Dragoons had gathered along the right flank of the chamber, their postures disciplined despite the exhaustion shadowing every face. On the left, the surviving Mythral Dawn Commanders stood at attention, each bearing fresh cuts and dents in their armor—silent proof of the fight they'd just survived.
A detailed map of Teravane's northern front lay spread before them, marked with blood-red pins where the enemy's strongholds had once stood. The Rift Spire's marker had been removed entirely, leaving a black scorch mark on the parchment where the pin had burned through.
Caelum was the first to break the silence.
"The Spire was a keystone," he said, voice gravelly. "Without it, the enemy's forward summoning capability is crippled—at least in this region."
Sorei's gaze was fixed on the map, her tone more cautious.
"Crippled isn't destroyed. If the acolytes regroup, they'll find another focal point."
Selene rested one hand on the table, leaning forward slightly.
"Which is why we don't stop here. Every day we wait, they dig deeper into the Rift network. The longer it stays open, the more of their kind bleed through."
Alter's golden eyes swept across the table.
"Our next target is further north. The enemy's summoning citadel isn't the only threat—we've identified a second riftcore buried under the Black Expanse. If left unchecked, it will eclipse the Spire in scale."
Veyna traced a gloved finger toward the northernmost edge of the map.
"That's deep into their territory. Supply lines will stretch thin."
"Then we shorten them," Rhed cut in bluntly. "We carve a path that doesn't give them the chance to cut us off."
Takayoshi's voice entered the room via the telepathic channel, his tone steady but edged with urgency.
'Soryn and I are reinforcing the Seraveth front. But we've detected increased movement from the Black Expanse toward your position. Expect resistance before you even breach their outer wall.'
Alter gave a short nod, the telepathic echo still resonating in his mind.
"Then we move before they're ready. Every hour we wait is another enemy we'll have to kill later."
Outside, the muted rumble of siege engines being repaired mixed with the rhythmic clank of armored boots on stone. The camp was already alive with motion—healers binding wounds, smiths reforging shattered weapons, runners carrying orders.
Selin spoke up from the Dragoon line, her voice quiet but carrying.
"If this is the path north, the Dragoons will hold the point."
Alter's gaze met hers, then swept across all of them—the Dragoons, the Commanders, the veterans of this campaign.
"You've earned your rest tonight. But at dawn, we march. The Black Expanse will fall, and with it, their last anchor in Teravane."
A murmur of affirmation moved through the chamber, not loud, but heavy with resolve.
The meeting broke, officers peeling away to relay orders. Alter lingered a moment longer, looking down at the map—his fingers brushing the charred scar where the Rift Spire's pin had once been.
One scar healed.Too many left to go.
The dawn over Teravane broke red. Not the soft red of morning sun, but the burnished hue of light forced through a haze of smoke and dust that clung stubbornly to the horizon. The smell of the Rift Spire's ruins still carried on the wind—a scorched, bitter reminder of what they had torn down.
By the time the sun's rim breached the jagged skyline, the Dragoons were already assembled in full battle gear, their silver-and-dragonsteel plate catching the dim light in muted flashes. Behind them, the Mythral Dawn Commanders and their respective divisions stood ready, banners snapping in the cold air. The combined force was smaller than when they had set out, but the way they stood—silent, sharp, unshaken—spoke louder than any number.
Alter walked the length of the front line, Starsever slung across his back, his gaze cutting through the morning mist. He said nothing at first—just let his presence move through the ranks, every step a silent reminder that they had not fought this far to stop now. Selene moved with him, her aura a steady flame beside his, each Dragoon she passed straightening a fraction taller.
The sound of departure was not the rattle of chaos but the steady, synchronized thrum of boots and armor as the army began to march. Siege engines creaked under the strain of fresh-reinforced beams, their wheels grinding against the hardened dirt. Supply wagons rolled behind the front lines, guarded by tight formations of soldiers who kept their eyes on the plains ahead.
The land changed as they left the burned wreckage of the Rift Spire behind. Fields gave way to scarred earth, furrowed with claw marks as wide as trenches. Here and there, the blackened skeletons of trees stood like grasping hands reaching toward the gray sky. The further they went, the less birdsong they heard, until the silence itself seemed to watch them.
Veyna rode up alongside Alter.
"Scouts confirm movement two days ahead. No fixed defenses yet, but… the ground is shifting."
Alter's golden eyes narrowed.
"Tunneler units."
Caelum's voice joined them from the opposite flank.
"If they're preparing ambush positions this far out, the Black Expanse isn't just defended—it's alive."
Rhed, marching a few paces behind, spat into the dirt.
"Then we cut it open and bleed it dry before it grows."
Through the bond of the Veil, Takayoshi's voice reached Alter again.
'The Black Expanse is already feeding on the surrounding land. It will try to choke your approach. Stay mobile, or it will bury you.'
They marched until the day's light was a thin smear against the clouds. The scouts returned at dusk, their expressions tight. Beyond the next ridge, the world fell away into a plain the color of dried blood, vast and unbroken except for the jagged silhouettes that marked the beginning of the Black Expanse.
It wasn't just a place—it was a wound in the land. The ground swirled in slow, unnatural currents, as though the soil itself breathed. And at the far edge of sight, something vast and spire-like rose from the earth, veined in molten red lines, pulsing with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
The Riftcore.
Alter stopped at the ridge's crest, his army halting in a wave behind him.
"We move at first light. Tonight, we rest—but keep the perimeter tight. This place will not sleep while we're here."
Far out across the plain, something shifted—too large to be a mere beast, too slow to be wind. It sank back into the ground, but the ripple of its passage made the earth tremble under their feet.
The Black Expanse was awake.
And it was waiting for them.