PRESENT DAY:
EXT. DOMAIN OUTSKIRTS – NIGHT
The crimson sky hangs low and unmoving, a smothered moon behind clouds of ash.
A ring of broken stone and scorched trees becomes a temporary refuge.
Lanterns flicker in makeshift holders; faint sigils glow on the ground where wards have been carved.
The air still tastes of sulfur and burnt iron, but for the first time in days there is no sound of pursuit.
Survivors move like shadows through the camp, a handful of suppliers, and the battered core squad.
Some patch wounds, others gnaw on compressed rations.
Weapons lie within arm's reach even as bodies slump in exhaustion.
Kwame (checking a supply crate): That's the last of the purified water in this box we have tons left since many of our people died.
Tanaka (coiling his spiked chain): I'll take first watch. Keep the lanterns low. Anything moving out there will see us before we see it.
Nearby, a medic seals Grace's shoulder with a faint blue salve. She winces but does not pull away.
Grace: We need to rotate guards every hour. No one stays awake more than two.
She looks toward the edge of camp.
Where's Kairo?
Cassian, half-reclined against a boulder, adjusts the black halberd across her knees.
Even bruised and pale, her presence carries a quiet gravity.
A small group keeps a cautious distance, whispering.
Survivor #1 (whispering): That's her. The Sixth Herald of Crimson.
Survivor #2: A Herald... fighting for us?
Cassian's dark eyes flick toward them; the whispers die.
Cassian (dryly): If you're going to talk, do it where I can hear. I don't bite.
A few nervous laughs break the tension. Grace studies her carefully.
Grace: Herald of Crimson. Military family... soldier. Why hide it?
Cassian: Because titles mean nothing here.
She taps the haft of her halberd against the ground.
Cassian: Down here, only survival counts.
A ripple of displaced air stirs the ash.
Kairo steps out of the dark, coat streaked with soot, eyes sharp but unreadable.
Conversations stall as he strides toward the firelight.
Cassian: You were gone too long. Where did you run off to?
Kairo (setting down Cassian's spare pack): Scouting. Tracking the Third Sigil's scent.
His gaze flicks across the group.
Kairo: He's far—too far. Either he hides, or someone pulled him out.
Kwame: Someone? You mean what pulled him out.
Kairo doesn't answer. He crouches near the fire, wiping blood from his gloves with deliberate calm.
Dimitri, leaning on his longsword, watches Kairo with narrowed eyes.
Dimitri: If the demon can vanish like that, what stops it from coming back while we sleep?
Kairo: Nothing. That's why we set wards—and why I came back.
The group absorbs the words in uneasy silence.
Lantern light dances across their tired faces, revealing bruises, cracked armor, eyes that have not closed in days.
Later, as rotations begin, quiet moments surface.
Grace checks the perimeter with Tanaka.
Kwame sharpens his gauntlets while humming a low, steady rhythm.
Fritz's name slips from Grace's lips in a whisper only the ash can hear.
Cassian leans back against the stone, staring at the faint shimmer of the wards.
Herald or not, she looks almost human in exhaustion.
Narration: For a single night the Domain felt almost still. No screams. No rushing shadows. Only the soft grind of ash beneath boots and the fragile warmth of mortal breath— a heartbeat of peace before the next trumpet shakes the sky.
To be continued...