The night outside Tan'thalon's walls was as restless as Talia's mind. The desert wind howled like a wounded beast, carrying dust and whispers across the sand. Talia's vigorous training had at least led to a guard captain noticing her. And she had been invited to go on a night time patrol outside the arc wall. These patrols happened quite a lot, just outside the gun emplacements' , that decorated the top of the wall, rang. That way they could still get support if they needed it.
Talia's patrol had started as routine—three guards, a short sweep beyond the Arc Wall—but nothing was predictable in the desert.
The attack came swift and shattered the routine. Cloaked figures spilled from the dunes, blades glinting faintly in the light of the stars. Raiders, or worse, cultists. The guards fell into defensive formation, steel clashing in the dark and shields raised. The captain didn't even need to bark orders as they reacted by instinct.
Talia's blood surged with the familiar thrill of combat, eager to prove her worth after her encounter in the alleys. Her blade sang as she met the first strike, parried the second. But there were too many hostiles. Shadows moved faster than her eyes could follow in these low light conditions, and for every one she cut down, two more closed in. One of the guards evened the field a little by channeling his light and illuminating the environment. Talia's heart sank as she noticed just how badly outnumbered they were. Worse still, their path to safety of the gun emplacement support had been cut off by the cloaked figures. Talia tried to channel her own light to her hands, ready to scorch a few heretics, but against these odds her doubt crept back in, causing her light to falter.
Then the sand stirred.
A pillar of sand carved through the raiders, plumes and jets of sand that forced them back. Lightning followed, snapping like a whip, splitting the night open. The smell of scorched ozone filled the air. And there she was.
The Diviner stepped into the chaos as though it belonged to her, staff glowing, blind eyes half-lidded. Her body moved with unnerving certainty, turning to intercept a strike from behind before it landed, sweeping her staff in a fluid arc that sent a wave of sand crashing into another attacker. Talia stared even as she fought, unable to look away.
"You again?" she shouted over the clash, half accusation, half relief.
"You're welcome," the Diviner replied evenly, staff cracking against a raider's jaw.
She didn't even face him when she struck, as if she had felt him instead of seen him.
"That's not what I—" Talia cut herself off, her frustration rising as hot as the desert air.
She drove her blade into another raider and snarled, "You think you're so untouchable, don't you?"
The Diviner blocked a blow aimed at Talia's exposed flank without turning her head.
"And you think you don't need saving."
The words stung more than the fight itself.
"I don't," Talia spat, slashing through another foe.
The Diviner's blind gaze tilted toward her, calm even as lightning arced from her staff to drop three enemies at once, her nose twitching slightly as if sniffing the air.
"Then why are you bleeding?"
Talia glanced down, almost against her will. A shallow cut along her ribs stung, blood soaking through her tunic. She clenched her teeth, angry at herself—for missing it, for her weakness, for the Diviner seeing it before she had.
"Stay out of my way," she growled, throwing herself forward into the fray.
"Then stop leaving openings," the Diviner said, her tone maddeningly serene.
The two of them fell into a rhythm, unwilling allies bound by necessity. Talia's blade flared with holy light, her resolve strengthened by the Diviner near her, her strikes strong and decisive, while the Diviner wove earth and lightning through the gaps, scorching every shadow that slipped past and knocking the rest down. Seeing their teamwork inspired the guards as they aimed for the raiders, making short work of any strays. By the time the last raider fled into the dunes, the sand was littered with scorched weapons and smoking footprints. Talia's chest heaved, sweat stinging her cuts, but her eyes were locked on the Diviner. The woman stood steady, staff planted in the sand, calm as ever—untouched.
"You drive me mad," Talia said at last, the words spilling before she could stop them.
The Diviner tilted her head, blind eyes fixed unerringly on her. For the first time, a hint of a smile touched her lips.
"Good. Then you'll remember me."
Her focus shifted suddenly, her playful gaze now serious. If Talia didn't know better she would think the Diviner was like a cat.
"Get back to the wall. This is a fight you cannot win.." She readied her stance as she gestured for both Talia and the guard to leave.
Talia only huffed, protesting.
"Who are you to–.. ".
Then she felt it, a shudder in the sand. Soft at first, then increasingly violent. The dunes convulsed as though the world itself recoiled. Then it came, the desert exploding as it surfaced. A desert colossus, a centipede-like behemoth longer than anything Talia had seen before, its body a chitinous mountain of armor and writhing legs. The desert was its domain. For centuries, the colossus had ruled these sands, rising from the dunes to devour caravans, scattering soldiers like ants. The trembling of the earth always meant prey, tiny, fragile, blind to its power. Its head rose high above them, mandibles snapping like swords, eyes glowing with molten fury. The shimmer of light Talia had managed to summon now disappeared completely. The captain and her guard shouted for Talia to follow as they made a run for the wall, but the paladin stood frozen in place, fear gripping her. The Diviner noticed and whistled sharply.
Talia felt more shudders in the sand, this time soft and fast. Almost as if a giant horse were galloping towards them. The Diviner only smiled faintly, the slightest curve of a lopsided smile aimed at Talia, almost as if saying Don't worry, I got this.
In an instant, Talia saw it. Standing at the Diviner's side. A massive dire wolf. Standing at nearly the size of a horse it still easily dwarfed the woman standing besides it. Its frame was built of coiled muscle and sinew. This was a beast built for speed and power. She swore she could see faint glimmers in its fur under the moonlit sky. Her jaw dropped when she saw the Diviner swing effortlessly on its back, her fingers sinking deep in its fur, both of them setting off to combat the colossus.
The giant centipede rose, a mountain of chitin and hunger, mandibles splitting wide, eyes burning with molten rage. Below, prey stood waiting. A wolf. A woman. The beast lunged, expecting screams, panic, death. Which it got from Talia, who saw a mountain of mandibles and writhing limbs coming straight for her. The dire wolf darted forward, impossibly swift for his massive frame. The Diviner leaned into the motion, her arms forming the hooks of her praying mantis style. As she snapped her hands upward, a ridge of stone erupted from the desert floor, slamming into the creature's face and deflecting its strike to the side.The ridge shattered from the sheer mass colliding with it, but it had fulfilled its purpose of keeping Talia safe. To the monster it seemed unnatural, nothing like it had ever experienced before. Its jaws struck down, yet stone rose up like a wall of fangs, blocking its bite.
"You can stare at it in awe later! Get to safety!" The Diviner shouted from the wolf's back. The wolf twisted, his claws raking across one of its legs. At the same instant, the Diviner mirrored his motion, her clawed hand slicing downward, calling a jagged line of stone spikes to burst upward beneath the beast's underbelly.
The colossus thrashed, furious. Prey was not supposed to fight back. Prey was not supposed to shape the world. Yet the world bent, again and again, into the form of that small human's stance. It began to understand fear. The ground and wolf struck as one.
The wolf leapt high onto the monster's side, sinking his fangs deep. The Diviner arched backward into a mantis counter stance, and the earth obeyed. Pillars rose beneath the wolf's leap, giving him height and strength as if the desert itself flung him upward. When the colossus' tail whipped toward them, the wolf rolled aside, his weight pulling the Diviner low. Her palm struck the sand in perfect timing, channeling the movement into a shockwave ripple that diverted the tail into the dunes.
The wolf roared as his claws dug deep. At the same moment, the Diviner thrust both hands forward in a mantis strike, and the desert surged. A tidal wave of stone and sand crashed into the monster's chest, sending the colossus reeling.
The monster saw a wolf move faster than any predator it had ever known, claws raking fire across its armored limbs. And the woman…
The woman was worse.
She did not flinch. She did not flee. She moved her hands in strange, hooked motions, and the desert obeyed. Spikes of stone mirrored her strikes, waves of sand matched her steps, tremors echoed her stance. To the monster, it was not a wolf and a rider. It was as if the desert itself had turned against it. Every claw of the beast was met by a claw of stone. Every lash of its tail was redirected by the shifting earth. Every roar was drowned by the thunder of collapsing dunes. And always, the wolf's glowing eyes and crystalline fur flared in rhythm with the woman's blind gaze, as if the two were one body, one spirit.
Talia still stood frozen in place. Not from fear or terror, but completely in awe of seeing this woman battle a behemoth more than twenty times her size and doing so without fear. She shielded her eyes from the spray of sand, watching in disbelief. It was not a rider and a beast. It was not even woman and earth. It was a single entity, a living storm, each movement of wolf and master mirrored and amplified by the shifting ground.
The colossus rose again, enraged, towering above them like a living mountain. The wolf crouched low. The Diviner felt the tremor in his body—the signal.
She pressed her forehead against his neck, whispered a single word "Now."
The wolf leapt. Higher than any beast should. His crystalline fur glimmered like stars as his claws sank into the monster's head. The Diviner dropped into her final mantis stance, arms drawn back like hooked scythes. With a snap forward, she pulled the desert itself upward, spires of obsidian and sandstone surging from the dunes, anchoring the beast in place. The wolf roared, a sound like thunder, and wrenched downward with all his might. Its skull cracked against the spires, its body shuddered, and for the first time in ages, it fell. As darkness claimed it, the last thing the beast sensed was the rhythm: the heartbeat of wolf, woman, and earth, thundering together as one.
Then the desert fell silent.
The wolf landed heavily, dust clouding around him. The Diviner slid from his back, one hand pressed to the sand, the other resting on his flank. Her blind eyes lifted toward Talia.
"Even mountains can fall," she said softly "Come, let's check if everyone is alright".
The wind swallowed her words as she turned, staff clicking against stone, walking away into the dark desert sky. The now silent night only disturbed by the whistles of the blind woman and the clicking of her tongue. Talia stood trembling, sword still in her hand, heart hammering with something that wasn't battle-fury.
While most of Tan'thalon was fast asleep, Maranth and Veyra made their way to the conference room where they had spoken with Shyra. They were now accompanied by the third council member, Jareth. Maranth swayed the oaken doors open with grandeur that only man befitting his status could. He made a straight line right for the lazulli node in the center. Clearly he didn't want to waste time. It was Veyra that slowed him down a hint.
"Maranth.. We haven't spoken to him in decades. Do you really think it wise to just barge into this conversation?" she carefully prodded.
"What other choice do we have? If the data analyst is right, Tan'thalon needs to buy time. And the architect is the best way to do that" For the first time, Maranth's stoic expression showed a hint of worry.
"We didn't exactly leave on the best of terms last time" Jareth said, sympathising with Veyra.
The high counselor wouldn't have any of it and pressed the lazulli node, anxiously awaiting if the shield architect would even answer. He didn't answer yet. One minute went by. Two minutes turned into ten. Then, strings of light started pouring from the node. They formed the visage of a Haitreh. Like Shyra he moved around on four digitigrade legs, though his built was heavier. He was larger than most Haitreh, with massive rear leg musculature built to brace for shield impact redirection. His cranial ridge was flattened for mounting graviton relay arrays, and his arms were heavily armored. He didn't take shielding as just an architect it seemed. When he spoke, his voice carried that same harmonious undertone that seemed typical for the Haitreh.
"Maranth.. " he inclined his head shortly "Don't tell me. The wall is in distress, like I told you it would, twenty five years ago".
"Shield architect Veylak. It has been too long. You were summoned because the council has need of your expertise." The high councilor tried to ignore the remark with a stern tone.
"Expertise?" Drenn snorted as he continued to fiddle with some displays, designs for shields no doubt "You ignored it for twenty years. Now the desert knocks at your doors, and suddenly the old Haitreh's ramblings are worth hearing again. Tell me, Maranth, is it humility I hear… or desperation?".
"Call it pragmatism" Veyra said smoothly, trying to diffuse the two men "The Arc Wall is the city's pride, but it must also be its salvation. Certainly you have spoken with Shyra. Can it endure what comes?".
"The wall endures because I made it endure" Drenn scoffed, clearly bothered by how they left things last time "Stabilisers woven through stone, harmonized to Tan'thalon's rhythm. But stone weathers, veins fracture, wards weaken. If the desert presses as hard as you claim, then no — it cannot endure, not as it stands today."
"We have spoken with Shyra Vollten" Maranth said, running his fingers tentatively over his beard "Three farms in as many weeks".
"Hmph" Drenn shot him a brief glance "At least she still remembers numbers matter more than prayer. Good. You'll understand when I say this wall must be reinforced, not merely patched. New stabilisers, repulsors, shield generators. I would advise deploying a graviton lattice projector too. Days of work. Weeks, if the council dithers."
Lights shot out of the node again, weaving into the familiar form of Eldarion. He always had a great timing to barge into things.
"Ah, the council gathers again. Have you decided, then? Shall I lead the charge into the sands, or will you have me sit idle while cowards cling to walls?"
"And here's the other reason your wall will fall. Too much noise, not enough thought." Drenn muttered, not even giving the other projection a glance.
Eldarion immediately bristled "What did you sa–".
Drenn didn't grant him the joy of finishing as he cut in with a sharp voice.
"I said your sword will do less to stop the desert than a bucket against the tide. You want glory? Fine. But when Tan'thalon's stones crumble, remember whose arrogance let them crack."
"Perhaps Tan'thalon needs both wall and sword. But without the Shield architect's hand, the wall will fail before the sword even leaves its sheath." Veyra tried to diffuse the situation.
Drenn gruffed, he certainly lived up to his grumpy reputation "At last, someone who speaks sense. Give me workers, resources, and silence from your paladin, and I'll give you time. Nothing more. Time. Use it wisely, or waste it — makes no difference to the wall."
Drenn then turned to Maranth, not quite satisfied with their previous discussion in the past.
"Twenty years ago, I stood in this very chamber with the same warnings. I laid the figures before you—fracture rates, Lazulli leeching, the weakening wards. And what did you tell me then, Maranth? That it was too costly. Too distant. That your grandchildren could worry about it."
Maranth felt the need to defend himself.
"We had no proof the wall would falter in our time. And Tan'thalon's coffers could not be emptied for a threat still centuries away."
Drenn only snarled back. He always hated when his warnings were waved off, even if they were based on facts.
"Centuries? Look outside your windows! The desert is already clawing at your farmlands. Villages swallowed in weeks, not lifetimes. The cracks I warned of are here, widening with every tide of sand. Your 'prudence' bought you nothing but decay."
Veyra, as always, tried to cool the fire rekindling between the two.
"Enough. The past cannot be relit, only its lessons carried forward. The question now is whether the Shield architect can still mend what time and neglect have undone."
Drenn's gaze snapped towards her, then back to Maranth.
"I can mend stone, Lady Veyra. I can weave your Lazulli veins anew and implement Haitreh technology. But I cannot mend arrogance. That rot lies with the council. And it festers still."
As his image faded, he made one last remark "Humans.. Thinking violence solves everything..".
Later that night, Tan'thalon lay hushed beneath the stars, its magitech lanterns flickering faintly like constellations drawn low to earth. No one knew about the epic battle that had happened just outside the walls. The desert colossus had already been reclaimed by the sand. Talia had sought solitude on a rooftop terrace, trying to cope with everything that had happened until now. She hadn't even taken the time to strip her armor off. It's usual shine battered by the desert. She didn't have that much experience outside of her estate. The shock of witnessing first hand what kind of monstrosities lurked in the desert had hit her hard. To make matters worse for her already fragile mind, she wasn't alone.
The Diviner sat cross-legged near the edge, her staff resting at her side, one palm pressed flat to the stone beneath her. Her head was tilted, eyes closed, as though she were listening to something only she could hear. She always liked the rooftops. They were quiet, away from the loud noises of the city. Noises so loud they could overwhelm her.
Talia leaned against a column in the shadows, arms folded. She told herself she was watching for danger. That she was guarding the perimeter. But her gaze kept drifting back—drawn to the stillness, to the strange quiet power of the woman beside her. If she was honest with herself, she didn't even know how she got here. Had she come up here seeking solitude, or had she followed the Diviner.
Without opening her eyes, the Diviner's voice cut through the silence.
"You're staring again."
Talia stiffened, raising her mental shields. "I'm not."
The faintest curve touched the Diviner's lips. "Lies."
Heat rushed to Talia's cheeks, and she turned sharply toward the city lights, as if they were suddenly fascinating. "You're insufferable, you know that?"
"Some would say perceptive." The Diviner finally opened her eyes, not focusing on Talia, yet finding her all the same. "You burn too brightly to go unnoticed. Even in silence, you flare."
Talia's jaw tightened. "So what, now I'm just… noise and fire to you? Something to study?"
The Diviner's head tilted slightly, her expression unreadable in the half-light. "Something to watch. Carefully. Because wildfire is beautiful, even when it threatens to destroy."
Talia's breath caught, her retort faltering. She hated how her pulse quickened at those words, how the compliment and the warning tangled together.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Getting under my skin."
The Diviner's smile deepened, soft, amused, almost tender. "Good."
She closed her eyes once more, palm still resting on the stone. "Because that means you'll remember me, even when you try not to."
The rooftop fell quiet again, save for the distant hum of magitech engines below. Talia shifted uncomfortably, torn between storming off and drawing closer. Instead, she stayed, hating the stillness, hating the pull, and hating most of all how much she didn't want to leave. How did this woman keep managing to do this with her? Having her staring in awe one moment, and drawing the blood from under her nails the other.The silence stretched too long for Talia's liking. She pushed off the column and stalked closer, boots scraping against the rooftop tiles.
"You think you've got me all figured out, don't you?" she said, voice low and edged.
The Diviner didn't move. Her eyes stayed shut, her hand still pressed to the stone as though listening to the city's pulse.
"Not figured out. Just seen."
"Seen?" Talia barked a sharp laugh. "That's rich, coming from someone who can't even—"
She bit the words back too late. The Diviner's head tilted, blind eyes opening just enough to show pale irises that reflected the lantern light. Not angry. Not hurt. Just… steady.
"Say it."
Talia clenched her fists. "You don't even look at me when you fight. You don't look at anything. And somehow you always have the upper hand. It's infuriating."
The faintest flicker of amusement touched the Diviner's lips. "You mistake discipline for arrogance."
Talia scowled. "You mistake arrogance for wisdom."
That earned her a laugh, soft, low, the kind of sound that slipped under armor and cut deeper than steel.
"You burn so fast," the Diviner murmured, turning her face toward the night sky. "And yet you fear anyone who doesn't burn like you."
Talia opened her mouth to snap back, but the words tangled. Something in that calm voice unraveled her anger before it could take shape. The Diviner let the silence settle for a moment, then her tone shifted. Still quiet, but weighted, as though she were peeling something hidden from her chest.
"I was blind from birth," she said simply.
Talia blinked, thrown off balance. She searched the Diviner's face, but there was no hesitation, no shame.
"My parents saw only weakness," the Diviner continued, voice steady though her hand tightened slightly against the stone. "But they also saw bloodlines, inheritance, power. They pushed me to lead our estate, to speak like a ruler, to act like one. They wanted a perfect heir, not a daughter."
She paused, the faintest crack of bitterness bleeding through. The first time Talia even saw the faintest crack in her armor "The pressure was… constant. Every word measured. Every mistake punished. Eventually I realized I couldn't breathe in their world. So I left."
Talia's chest tightened. For once, she had no retort.
"You ran away," she said finally, though the words came softer than she intended.
The Diviner inclined her head, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "I chose freedom."
Talia stared at her, conflicted. She wanted to sneer, wanting to argue, but also… understanding. Far too well.
"You make it sound so simple."
"It wasn't," the Diviner said, turning her blind gaze toward her again. "It never is."
The rooftop fell quiet once more, but the air between them felt sharper now, charged with both rivalry and something deeper, something fragile. Talia looked away first, furious with herself for feeling that fragile thing stir. She paced a few steps away, boots grinding against the stone. She hated how her chest felt tight, how the Diviner's words refused to loosen their grip.
"You make it sound like you had no choice," she said finally, sharper than intended. "That running was the only answer."
The Diviner tilted her head. "And you sound as though you envy it."
Talia froze, heat rising to her face. "Envy? Please. I don't run. I never run"
"Don't you?" The Diviner's voice was calm, but the words cut. "From what burns you inside?"
Talia turned, glaring. "You think you know me because you can block a blade without looking? You don't."
For a moment, silence.
Then, softer than before, the Diviner said: "Then tell me. Who are you, Talia?"
The name, spoken like that—gentle, unarmored—slipped past her defenses. Talia looked away quickly, fists tightening at her sides. She never was very good at handling her emotions.
"I…"
Her throat felt dry. She wanted to dismiss it, to snap back with some clever defiance. But the words pushed through anyway.
"I was never given a choice either. My father drills me every day. Sword, shield, doctrine, duty. My mother watches every step, every word, waiting for me to… I don't know. Prove I'm worthy. Prove I can bear the name."
Her voice faltered, quieter now.
"I thought if I became a paladin, if I trained hard enough, if I kept fighting, maybe I'd stop feeling like I'm… less."
The Diviner didn't move, didn't speak. She simply listened, her blind gaze steady and unshaken. Talia clenched her jaw, angry at herself.
"And look at me. First night here and I nearly bleed out in an alley. Then outside the wall… I couldn't even move when I saw that… monster. Some paladin."
The Diviner finally stirred, the faintest smile touching her lips.
"And yet you're still standing."
"That's not enough."
"It is, when you refuse to fall."
The Diviner's tone softened, threading warmth into the cool night.
"Strength isn't perfection, Talia. It's persistence. And I see persistence burning in you brighter than any flame."
Talia swallowed hard, fighting the surge in her chest—anger, pride, longing, all tangled. She turned away quickly, arms crossed tight.
"You're impossible."
"Perhaps." The Diviner's voice carried the shadow of a smile. "But so are you."
The rooftop fell quiet again, but this time the silence felt different—less like a barrier, more like a fragile bridge stretched between them.
Talia dragged her hands through her damp hair and let out a sharp breath. "You talk like you've got all the answers. Like every word from your lips is wisdom carved in stone."
The Diviner's brow twitched. "And you talk like a soldier who mistakes stubbornness for strength."
That struck too close. Talia whipped around, anger lighting her voice.
"What would you know about strength? You left your family, your estate—ran away the first time it got too heavy! That isn't strength. That's cowardice."
The words echoed harsher than she'd meant. For an instant, the rooftop seemed to go still. The Diviner's blind eyes turned toward her, unreadable. She didn't lash back, didn't raise her voice. She just breathed once, slow and measured, as though swallowing the sting whole.
"I could strike you for that," she said quietly.
Not a threat. Just a fact. Talia's pulse jumped. She squared her shoulders, jaw tight.
"Then do it."
But the blow never came. Instead, the Diviner lifted her hand, turning her palm outward, and extended it slowly into the space between them. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of what the gesture meant.
"I trust you," she said simply.
The words landed heavier than any strike. Talia stared at the offered hand, fury and guilt warring in her chest. Her instinct screamed to refuse, to scoff, to walk away before she unraveled further. But the look on the Diviner's face—open, steady, impossibly calm—held her rooted. Her throat worked around words she couldn't form.
At last, she muttered, almost bitterly: "You're impossible."
The faintest smile curved the Diviner's lips. "So you've said."
The hand stayed extended. Waiting. Talia's fingers twitched at her side. Against every impulse, she reached out—hesitant, almost reluctant—and touched the Diviner's palm. Warmth. Steady. Unyielding. Not a handshake. Not a warrior's grip. Just… contact. Talia pulled away too quickly, heat rushing to her face.
"Don't think this means anything."
"Of course not," the Diviner said, voice calm, but the soft curve of her smile betrayed otherwise. The silence that followed was different again. Sharper. Warmer. Fragile. Like the first breath after a storm.
The rooftop's stillness shattered with a faint hiss, like steel being drawn from leather. Talia stiffened, her hand flying to her sword. She knew that sound all too well.
"We're not alone."
The Diviner didn't rise, didn't flinch. She tilted her head slightly, as if the stones themselves whispered to her.
"Three. No, four. Moving fast."
Figures vaulted over the parapet, shadows slipping through the rain-slick night. Knives glinted in their hands, faces masked. Hired blades, quick and silent. Talia stepped forward, lifting her shield, the familiar fire of battle sharpening her focus. Now that she was focussed, her shield lit up like the lanterns in the street. What she saw weren't ordinary people. Their limbs gleamed in the light her shield emitted. Talia had read about them. Silent wardens. Enhanced, like the ember seeker. Doubt crept in again, causing her shield to flicker.
"Stay behind me."
But the Diviner only stood, her blind eyes calm, one hand brushing the rooftop stones.
"I don't hide."
The assassins lunged. Steel rang as Talia met the first strike, her shield knocking one blade wide while her sword cut upward in a blur. The clash jolted through her bruised shoulder, but she ground her teeth and pressed harder. Behind her, the Diviner raised her other hand. The stones beneath their feet shuddered with a low hum, vibrating like a heartbeat. One of the attackers faltered mid-step, losing his balance as cracks spidered underfoot. Talia risked a glance, enough to see it again. The way the Diviner blocked a slash that came from her blind side, ducking just before the blade sliced air where her head had been. Not sight. Not chance. Something else.
"You—" Talia grunted, bashing her shield into another attacker. "You felt that, didn't you?"
"No time," the Diviner murmured, sweeping her hand outward. A ripple surged through the rooftop stone, buckling the ground beneath another assassin and sending him sprawling. The last one lunged at Talia from behind. She spun too late. But a pulse of force cracked the stones under his feet, knocking him off balance. Talia whirled and drove her sword hilt into his jaw, sending him crashing unconscious to the ground.
Silence fell.
The Diviner straightened, breathing steady despite the exertion. Her blind gaze turned toward Talia, a faint lopsided, smile touching her lips.
"Still standing."
Talia's chest heaved, her knuckles white on the hilt of her sword. She wanted to snap something back, to retake control of the moment. Instead, all she managed was a grudging nod.
"…You too."
Their eyes, hers sharp, the Diviner's blind but unflinching, met in the rain-slick dark. Something unspoken passed between them, not victory, not rivalry, but the fragile beginnings of recognition.
The last of the assassins lay crumpled, rain washing rivulets of blood across the stone. The night pressed in again, heavy and damp, as though the city itself held its breath.
Talia slid her sword back into its sheath, forcing her hand to unclench from the grip. Her arm trembled with the effort, not from fear, but from the drain of the fight and the sting of her half-healed bruises.
"You should've stayed back," she muttered, more harshly than she meant. "One wrong step, and they'd have gutted you."
The Diviner tilted her head, her hand still resting lightly against the rooftop stone, fingers splayed as if listening. "And yet, here I am."
Talia turned sharply. "Don't twist this. I don't need another mouth telling me I can't protect my own—"
"I didn't say you failed." The Diviner's voice was maddeningly calm, threaded with something softer. "I said I'm still here. Because of you."
Talia froze, thrown off-balance more than any blade had managed.
"You—" Her words faltered, heat prickling at her face. "You always talk like that. Like you see more than me. Like you've got me figured out."
The Diviner's lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Do I?"
"You…" Talia swallowed hard. "You don't even have eyes."
The words landed heavier than she intended, and she cursed herself as soon as they left her tongue. But the Diviner didn't flinch. Instead, she slowly turned her face toward Talia, sightless gaze steady.
"No. I never have. I was born blind."
The admission cracked something in the rooftop silence. The pulse of rain softened, the city hum fading under the weight of her words. It almost seemed as if time itself had slowed.
"My parents thought if they pushed me hard enough, if they gave me their estate, their expectations… I would overcome it. That I could pretend to be like them." Her fingers pressed to the stone as though grounding herself. "But every expectation was a chain. I ran before I drowned beneath them."
Talia stared, the sharp retorts on her tongue dying away. She wanted to scoff, to call it weakness again, but the Diviner's voice held no shame, only quiet defiance. It twisted at her chest in a way she didn't want to name. For a moment, neither spoke. Just the sound of their breathing, rain dripping on stone, and the faint thrum of the city beneath their boots.
Finally, Talia muttered, "Running doesn't sound so cowardly anymore."
The Diviner's blind eyes turned toward her, unreadable yet piercing all the same. And then, in a gesture so simple yet so disarming, she reached out—not as a command, not even as an offer, but as an acknowledgment—resting her fingertips lightly against Talia's gauntleted hand.
Not holding. Not claiming. Just trusting.
Talia's breath caught. Her first instinct was to pull back, to reject the contact. But she didn't. Couldn't. The warmth lingered like fire beneath her skin.
Finally Talia broke the gentle silence, barely, her voice soft. Not sharp or accusing, just inquiring.
"You do know they were Silent Wardens?"
The answer was simple.
"Yes.. That's what worries me. First an ember seeker, and now wardens.. Something is up"
That night, Talia lay on the narrow cot the guard captain had grudgingly offered her, staring at the low beams of the ceiling. After her last argument with Eldarion she had decided to split ways. She would deal with the fallout of her parents later. The scent of wet stone clung to her, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood on her skin. She hadn't bothered to wash it all away. Her body was too drained, her mind too restless. Sleep didn't come. Every time she closed her eyes, she didn't see the assassins, didn't relive the clash of steel or the crack of stone. She saw her. The Diviner, rain streaming down her face, moving like she'd been born in the rhythm of the fight. Her calm words, steady even when blades came from angles no eyes could track. The way she'd turned her blind gaze on Talia and spoken her truth without a tremor.
And that touch.
Talia lifted her hand into the air, staring at it in the dim lamplight. The memory of those fingertips against her gauntlet lingered like a brand. No demand, no control—just trust. It had unsettled her more than any wound.
"Ridiculous," she muttered, rolling onto her side.
The cot creaked in protest. "She's infuriating. Smug. Always one step ahead, like she can see straight through me."
And yet.
The heat in Talia's chest wasn't anger. Not entirely. Something about the Diviner's defiance, her refusal to be pitied, gnawed at her. Talia was a paladin, trained to fight, to protect, to stand taller than the world expected. She should have dismissed the woman's confession. But instead, she'd found herself—what? Admiring her?
No. That couldn't be it. She pressed her forehead into her pillow, gritting her teeth.
"Damn her."
The city hummed faintly outside, a heartbeat in the stones. Talia wondered if the Diviner was out there even now, listening to it. Breathing with it. Awake like she was, or at peace in ways Talia couldn't grasp. Sleep never came easy after battle, but tonight the unrest wasn't in her sword arm. It was in her chest.
The cause of Talia's turmoil had retreated to one of May'jahan's temples. These stone structures had always felt special to her. She wasn't certain if it was because she was a disciple of May'jahan or if it was the structure itself, but it felt like home. And home was something she needed now that her mind had begun to wonder about tonight.
The chamber she was seated in was dark, though darkness meant little to her. She had never seen the world in the way others claimed to: no walls of stone, no flickering torchlight, no rivers glinting beneath the sun. Instead, she felt the world through the quiet hum of lifeforce, the steady chorus of sparks flickering and flowing all around her.
And yet tonight, the harmony had faltered.
There had been a hollow on the rooftops, a place where no thread sang, no ember flickered. She had felt it coming up to Talia and her, pressing at the edges of her awareness like a wound in the weave. Whoever they were, they had hidden themselves perfectly, save for their silence. Too perfect. To deliberate. Even Talia, who literally could walk in the light, didn't see them coming.
The Silent Wardens. She had only heard the whispers. Assassins that erased their own lifeforce to become shadows — neither living nor dead, but something in between. Enhanced individuals that replaced limbs with mechanical constructs to dampen their footprints, warping and disfiguring their lifeforce.
But the question that burned in her mind was not what they were. It was who had sent them.
Her first thought was of the High Born lords of Tan'thalon. Their lifeforce always burned cold — calculating, hungry. To them, she was a threat, a blind girl with a power they could never own nor replicate. Would they risk a Warden to strip her of that power?
Or was it the cultists of Ba'ham, ever striving to prove their god's fire should belong to all? They would see her silenced, her light smothered, to prove May'jahan's gift was nothing more than tyranny.
But darker still was the possibility she dared not linger on: her own goddess' faithful. For though she did not know how unusual her lifeforce was, she knew it was stronger, much stronger, than most she touched. Did they see her as dangerous? An uncontrolled flame that might one day burn what it was meant to guard?
Her hands trembled as she pressed them together, feeling the lifeforce thrumming inside her veins like rivers. To her, it was simply what she had always known, a brightness greater than others, but not something to question. Still, she whispered into the emptiness of the chamber:
"Who sent you? And how many more will come?"
The silence gave no answer. But in that silence, she felt the wound again — faint, distant, but still watching. And she understood this was not the last night she would know the presence of a Warden. For their task had not been completed.
Talia had been summoned to the council again the next morning. Barely awake after a night of very little sleep. Being a noble she had been taught how to properly dress for occasions, even if she didn't feel like it. The lack of sleep hidden under make-up and her mind jolted awake by a cold shower. That worked wonders. Every time she entered the council chamber she was struck with a sense of wonder and awe. The chamber was vast, built of dark stone veined with Lazulli that pulsed faintly with arcane light. High above, banners of Xaerona's noble houses swayed in the artificial draft, their colors muted in the cavernous hall. The Councilors sat on raised thrones in a half-circle, their voices low and sharp as blades, the weight of their scrutiny heavy upon those summoned before them.
Talia stood at attention, shoulders squared in her polished armor, though her body still ached from the rooftop fight. She forced herself to meet the gaze of the elders—each one calculating, each one expecting poise and deference.
And then she felt it.
The subtle shift in the chamber's air, as though even the stone leaned to listen. She didn't need to turn her head to know the Diviner had entered.
When she finally allowed herself a glance, she caught sight of the woman walking forward with quiet certainty, every step unerring despite the blindness she wore as easily as breath. Her staff tapped once against the floor, a sound that carried through the silence. When she focussed on it, Talia saw that the Diviner made small movements with her head at the exact time her staff hit the floor, as though she was listening.
"Lady Surifarah. The Diviner." A Councilor's voice rang out. "You were both involved in the… incident last night."
Murmurs rippled through the assembly—words like assassins, deserters, destabilization. Talia inhaled deeply. This was no battlefield where steel decided fate. This was politics. And politics always threatened to strangle her. The Diviner, however, bowed her head with calm grace.
"Yes. And were it not for Lady Talia, I would not be standing before you."
Talia blinked, her breath catching. She had expected—what? A jab? A condescending remark? Instead, the Diviner had offered her credit. A lifeline. But it didn't soothe. If anything, it made her jaw tighten.
"I did what any paladin would have done. Nothing more."
A faint, knowing smile tugged at the Diviner's lips. "And nothing less."
Their eyes—well, Talia's eyes and the Diviner's sightless gaze—locked across the chamber. Talia could almost feel the unspoken duel between them: rivalry laced with something deeper, something neither of them dared to name here. The Councilors droned on, discussing threats and responses, but Talia's focus drifted. Every word the Diviner spoke was measured, poised, her voice like water smoothing over stone. And every time, it set Talia's teeth on edge—not because she disagreed, but because part of her agreed too much.
Finally, the eldest Councilor spoke: "You two have seen the enemy with your own eyes. You will work together—by our order. Tan'thalon cannot afford divided champions."
The verdict fell like a hammer. Talia's gut twisted. Standing side by side with the Diviner, tied to her by decree, was the last thing she wanted. And yet…
Her heart thudded traitorously.
The Diviner inclined her head, accepting the order with serenity.
"You are to venture into the desert and investigate any anomalies you find there. Find Ba'ham's cults and root them out".
That was the final decree. Then, as the chamber dismissed them, the Diviner turned her face subtly toward Talia. A whisper, meant only for her.
"Looks like you're stuck with me."
Talia clenched her fists at her side. "Don't get comfortable."
The Diviner's lopsided smile returned. "Too late."
The heavy doors boomed shut behind them, cutting off the droning voices of the Council. The corridor outside was cooler, lined with Lazulli sconces that glowed faintly like captured starlight. Guards flanked the hall, their gazes fixed straight ahead, pretending not to listen. Trained to not listen to things they shouldn't.
Talia walked stiffly, armor clinking with each step. The words of the decree still rang in her ears—You will work together. As though she needed reminding. The Diviner moved beside her, staff tapping softly, each step perfectly measured. Infuriatingly calm.
"You should wipe that scowl off your face," she murmured. "The Councilors might think you're pouting."
Talia's head snapped toward her. "I'm not pouting."
"Lies," the Diviner said smoothly, echoing her rooftop taunt.
Heat prickled across Talia's cheeks, half from anger, half from something she refused to name.
"Do you ever stop being insufferable?"
The Diviner tilted her head, that faint smile tugging at her lips.
"Not when it gets results."
They turned down a quieter passage, the sound of their boots and staff the only rhythm. For a moment, neither spoke. Finally, Talia broke the silence, her voice lower, sharper.
"Why did you tell them that? About me saving you. You didn't have to."
The Diviner's smile faded, replaced with a thoughtful stillness. She slowed her pace slightly, as though considering whether to answer. Then, softly.
"Because it was true. And because they needed to see you as more than just a noble paladin who defies orders."
Talia bristled. "I don't need your charity."
"Charity?" The Diviner turned her blind gaze toward her, unflinching. "No, Talia. Respect."
The word struck harder than any blade. For a heartbeat, Talia faltered. She hated the way her chest tightened, hated that she couldn't summon a sharp retort fast enough. The Diviner continued forward, serene as ever.
"Besides," she added lightly, "if we're to be bound together, the Council might as well believe we're a formidable pair."
Talia finally found her voice. "Bound together doesn't mean I trust you."
The Diviner only smiled again, this time softer. "That will come."
Talia clenched her fists, watching her stride ahead as though the hall itself bent to her presence. She wanted to shout, to argue, to prove her wrong.
Instead, the only words that escaped were a muttered: "Damn her."
Somewhere deep in the catacombs of the city, a figure waited. Armored but restless, it's face hidden behind a golden mask. It kept pacing in front of a candle lit altar. A Silent Warden staggered in, cloak torn and blood soaking the side of his ribs. He knelt, head bowed. The figure snapped toward him, speaking with an impatient male voice.
"You return alone, why?"
The Warden's voice rasped through his mask, steady, despite the wound to his side.
"The strike failed. The Diviner did not fall."
The golden figure remained still for a moment, only to raise his voice in a cold fury.
"Failed? Against one blind woman? Do you mock me, Warden?"
The Warden lifted his head, the lenses over his eyes reduced to a dim glow.
"She was not alone. The girl—Talia—intervened. Together, they turned the blade. Even blind, the Diviner moved as though she foresaw every strike."
The figure froze at the mention of the name. His mouth twisting in a show of pride and jealousy clashing with disbelief. Then, through gritted teeth.
"Talia. Always Talia. She… she shielded that heretic against me? Against Tan'thalon's will?"
The Warden remained quiet, preferring facts.
"Not against Tan'thalon's will. Against death. She chose the Diviner over fear. And the Diviner—she spared us when she could have ended us. That is why I stand here still."
The figure slammed his hand against the altar, knocking some of the candles over. His voice now a hiss with barely contained venom.
"Mercy? Mercy is not strength. She plays at sainthood while undermining the order, while stealing the hearts of the people. And Talia—"
He cut himself short, chest heaving.
"No. This cannot be allowed. The council already whispers of her. If they see her as savior and me as shadow…"
The Warden kept his measured composure, but had a hint of a warning in his tone.
"They already do. The people cheer her name in the lower rings. And now Talia stands at her side. Kill her again, and you may make her a martyr instead."
The figure whirled, eyes blazing. For a moment, he raised his gauntleted hand as if to strike the Warden, but lowered it with trembling restraint. Light glowing from his gauntlet, revealing his nature as a Paladin. He forced his voice into something smoother, concealing the seething fury beneath it.
"Then we will bleed her slowly. No martyrs. No saints. The council will see her for what she is — chaos, weakness, heresy. And when her mask shatters, when she falters before all Tan'thalon, then… only then… will I strike the final blow."
The Warden bowed his head, but as he left his posture was rigid, uneasy. As though he no longer fully believed the man he served.
More by ArasjieStormdragonTLiteratureThe Weight of the WorldChapter 4: The Western Road Steel rang against steel. The training yard bustled with paladins drilling in formation, their shields flashing as instructors barked orders. Talia's blade darted through the air, sparring against a guard captain twice her size. She pressed him hard, eager to prove her worth and prove the Diviner wrong. She was slowly getting the hang of controlling her light, until a single word cut through the clamor. "Sloppy." The Diviner stood just beyond the ring, staff in hand, her blind eyes turned unerringly toward her. Talia froze, teeth gritted. "What did you just—?" "You're leaving your right side wide open," the Diviner said, calm as ever. "Any assassin would gut you there." The captain hesitated, unsure whether to continue. Talia waved him off with a sharp gesture, stalking toward the Diviner. As a noble born she was already on equal rank with the captain, whether she liked it or not. "I don't need a lecture from someone who doesn't even fight with aRecommended LiteratureRLiteratureRe: Shattered Memories: Chapter 8I sat in an empty classroom. Millia stood behind the teacher's desk, wearing a professor's outfit. I had no idea where she got those clothes, and I didn't want to ask. The girl smacked the board behind her with a long rod. "Dante, you made it to The Duke's Duplicity's first boss, right?" Millia asked. "You're not too much of a noob to even get there?" "Yeah, I made it to the first boss. I never got it past them, though," I answered. A smug smirk crossed Millia's face. She folded her arms and grinned. "Well, you don't have to worry about that," the girl said. "With all the experience and trinkets I have, we'll beat the first boss for sure." Millia's expression turned serious. A sigh escaped her mouth. "Is what I'd like to say, but this game is really hard. We'll need all the help we can get," she stated. "I'm sure you know what the next step is." I wanted to give her a thumbs up, but this was a very serious situation. So, I nodded instead. "Yes. I need to get through the threeCLiteratureChapter 8 - The True Fight and Mystery Starts NowSid: (Uh! …Where am I? And this feeling and lack of feeling feels very familiar.) Sid suddenly found himself somewhere as if he just woke up. This was first for him since Termites don't sleep. Sid: (...I can't move! And it feels like I'm being carried!) Waylen: "I can't believe you girls needed my help. And I don't mean just catching them. You 3 were about to be caught by them! By 4 Termites! By the Network, I don't know how the others are going to react to this!" Sid: (What the hell?!) Sid was now experiencing serious deja vu. He was now being carried by Waylen again, while paralyzed, and was hearing him say something he already said before. Lucy: "Oh come on, Waylen! You were watching not from not too far away given how you snipped and drugged them! You must've seen everything that transpired! These little bastards were a lot smarter than we gave them credit for!" And now he was hearing the same from Lucy. It was clear that Waylen wasn't just repeating what he said. The sceneDLiteratureDay 30-Putting on Nice Clothes for the Apocalypse"If you knew that the world was going to end in a few days, what would you do?" I asked. "I would like to do something I had wanted to do but, for example, never had the time for," he answered. "Maybe I would put on a suit and a tie the day when the apocalypse finally happens. I think it would be cool to dress nicely for the last time ever." "Oh, interesting, maybe putting on nice clothes for the last time would actually be pretty nice," I said.More by ArasjieStormdragonfantasyfictionliteraturemagicsteampunkfictionalworld
In a world where magical forces are at work and the world itself seems to be in turmoil, it isn't easy being simply human among the other much stronger races. Let alone a human on a continent that is mostly desert. Luckily for Talia, she has the light guiding her. Though she has always been curious for a noble, delving into things she shouldn't, she doesn't have all that much experience with life outside her boundries. When she discovers her family's land is being swallowed by the desert at an alarming rate, she sets out to discover why.
One day on her travels her curiosity leads her directly in the path of the Diviner. Someone who does have experience but walks in the dark, and apears to be aware of certain shifts in the world. While they are polar opposites, circumstances force them to trust eachother, but together they might find out what has their world in such turmoil.