The mountains of Kethril rose like broken teeth against the morning sky.
Jagged peaks cut through low-hanging clouds, their stone faces streaked with old snow and newer scars where rockslides had torn free. Wind howled through narrow channels, carrying the sharp scent of pine, frost, and iron. The pass itself—ancient, winding, and vital—snaked between the cliffs, a lifeline for caravans and villages that clung stubbornly to the highlands.
At dawn, it should have been quiet.
It wasn't.
Shouts shattered the thin mountain air.
Steel rang against steel. A scream echoed, cut short. Smoke curled upward from splintered wagons, black against the pale stone, as panic tore through the narrow road.
"Run! Get off the pass—now!"
Civilians scattered in every direction—merchants abandoning carts, farmers dragging children by the hand, pack animals braying in terror as they broke free of their tethers. Crates burst open underfoot, grain spilling uselessly across the stone as people slipped and fell, scrambling to rise again.
They came from above.
Figures poured down the slopes and out from hidden ledges—rogues and bandits clad in mismatched armor and furs, faces wrapped in cloth, eyes wild. Some carried blades chipped and cruel. Others bore crude staves etched with unstable runes that crackled with dirty magic, casting erratic bursts of force into the fleeing crowd.
"Leave the goods! Just go!" someone shouted—too late.
A wagon axle shattered under a spell's impact, wood exploding outward. A guard went down nearby, struck from behind, his shield clattering uselessly across the stone.
The pass became chaos.
Horses reared. Children cried. Smoke, dust, and fear clogged the air as the attackers pressed forward—not disciplined, not organized, but relentless. This wasn't a clean raid.
It was desperation.
And somewhere beneath the screams and clashing steel, the mountains themselves seemed to hum—low, wrong, and restless—as if the stone remembered something it wished had stayed buried.
A woman, running with her child, lungs burned.
She clutched her daughter's hand and ran, boots slipping on loose gravel as the pass narrowed into a jagged side path. Shouts thundered behind them—too close now. The child stumbled, cried out, and the woman hauled her upright, heart hammering so hard it hurt.
"Keep going," she gasped. "Please—just a little farther—"
They rounded a bend and skidded to a halt.
Dead end.
Stone walls rose sheer on both sides, the drop behind them steep and unforgiving. The girl pressed herself into her mother's side, shaking, fingers digging into cloth.
Footsteps crunched.
Three men emerged from the smoke—bandits, faces smeared with ash and sweat, weapons already raised. One smiled, slow and ugly.
"Well," he drawled, "nowhere left to—"
Light tore through the air.
Not a flash. A line—clean and precise—cutting across the path like a blade drawn by the world itself. The first man didn't even scream; he was thrown back as if struck by a giant's hand. The second barely turned before a second streak slammed into his chest, hurling him against the rock with bone-breaking force. The third dropped his weapon and fled, terror finally outrunning greed.
Silence fell—sharp and sudden.
Boots stepped forward, measured and calm.
A woman stood between the mother and the smoke, her cloak snapping in the wind, armor marked with sigils that glowed faintly as the last echoes of magic faded. Her hair was pulled back, eyes sharp and unflinching as she scanned the pass for further threats.
"Move behind me," she said, voice steady, authoritative.
The mother stared, breathless. "Y-you're—"
"Lira Starwall," the woman said without looking back. One of the Twelve Pillars. "And you're not dying today."
She lifted her hand again, resonance gathering like a poised storm as more shouts echoed down the pass.
Lira didn't wait for a response.
She stepped forward, boots grinding into the stone, and raised her hand—not toward the oncoming shouts, but straight up.
Resonance coiled around her palm, tight and brilliant.
"Signal," she murmured.
She snapped her wrist skyward.
The spell didn't fly so much as launch—a spear of white-blue light that tore into the clouds above the pass. For a heartbeat it vanished into the gray, and then—
Boom.
The sky cracked open in a bloom of blinding radiance. The flare detonated high overhead, expanding outward in a circular burst of light that painted the mountains in stark silver and blue. Runes unfolded within it, spinning once before locking into place—a sigil visible for miles.
A call. A warning. A command.
The mountains answered with echoes.
Lira exhaled slowly as the flare lingered, burning bright against the clouds. "Platoon Starwall," she said, voice carrying magic as much as sound. "Northern spur of Kethril Pass. Civilians cornered. Hostiles active. I need backup—now."
The light pulsed once more, then began to fade.
Behind her, the mother clutched her daughter tighter. "What… what was that?"
"Help," Lira replied simply.
She turned back toward the smoke-filled bend of the pass as fresh footsteps thundered closer—more bandits, emboldened by numbers.
Lira's stance widened. The air around her thickened, humming with controlled power.
"Stay behind me," she repeated, calmer still. Then, to the oncoming chaos, she said softly:
"You've already taken too much."
The rumble began as a low vibration—so deep it was felt more than heard.
Pebbles skittered across the stone. Dust shook loose from the cliff walls. The ground beneath everyone's feet trembled, slow at first… then stronger. Heavier. Like the mountains themselves were drawing breath.
Even the bandits stopped.
One of them laughed nervously. Another backed away a step, eyes darting upward. The rumble grew louder, layered now with the unmistakable sound of armored boots striking stone in perfect cadence.
Lira didn't move.
She didn't turn. She didn't brace.
She simply stood there, gaze fixed on the men in front of her, calm and unyielding—as if she already knew exactly what was coming.
The tremor swelled into a roar.
Then shadows fell.
All along the cliff face—above, to the left, to the right—figures emerged from the stone like a closing vice. One by one, then dozens at a time, soldiers stepped into view, forming a vast horseshoe around the pass.
More than a hundred.
They moved with disciplined precision, spreading out along the ledges and ridgelines, weapons already drawn, shields locking into place with heavy, resonant thooms. Their armor was uniform—dark steel etched with faint runes—and emblazoned across every chestplate was the same symbol:
A massive star constellation, sharp and unmistakable.
Platoon Starwall.
The air itself seemed to bow under their presence.
The rumble ceased—not because the force had vanished, but because it had arrived.
Lira finally spoke.
Her voice carried—not loud, not shouted—but perfectly clear, cutting through the thin mountain air like a blade drawn slow and sure.
"Platoon Starwall," she said.
One hundred helms turned in unison.
"Rodents have infested the pass," Lira continued calmly, eyes never leaving the bandits frozen before her. "They have slaughtered civilians, disrupted trade routes, and defied imperial law."
She lifted her hand.
"Exterminate them."
The word fell like a verdict.
"And recover every citizen of Astoria," she finished. "Alive."
The response came as one.
Steel rang as shields locked tighter. Weapons shifted into ready grips. The constellation sigils across their armor flared—dim stars igniting in perfect harmony.
"Yes, Commander!" The shout thundered off the cliff walls, echoing through the pass like a decree from the mountains themselves.
The bandits broke.
Some screamed. Some ran. Some dropped to their knees, begging.
It didn't matter.
Starwall moved.
Soldiers descended the cliff faces with terrifying speed, leaping from ledge to ledge as if gravity itself had been negotiated in advance. Bolts of condensed resonance slammed into fleeing figures. Shields advanced in crushing lines. The pass became a controlled storm—precise, overwhelming, merciless.
Lira stepped aside, placing herself between the chaos and the mother and child.
"Stay here," she said softly, without looking back. "It will be over soon."
The girl peeked past her mother's arm, eyes wide—not with fear now, but in awe.
The girl hesitated, then tugged gently at her mother's sleeve. Her voice was small, thin from smoke and fear, but steady enough to carry.
"M… miss?" she asked, peeking around Lira's cloak. "What's your name?"
Lira glanced back over her shoulder, just enough for the child to see her face. The battle reflected in her eyes—firelight, falling steel—but her expression was calm, almost kind.
"Lira," she said simply. "Lira Starwall."
The girl nodded, as if committing it to memory like a hero's name from a story. She swallowed, then straightened as much as her shaking legs would allow.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For saving us."
Lira held her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then she inclined her head—not to the child's mother, not to the chaos behind her, but to the girl herself.
"You're welcome," she replied. "Astoria takes care of its own."
Behind them, the sounds of battle began to fade—shouts cutting short, steel falling silent, the mountains finally stilling. The pass breathed again.
And for the first time since the attack began, the girl smiled.
In the distance, the clash of battle resolved into rhythm.
One voice rose—then many—until the sound rolled through the mountain pass in perfect, thunderous unison.
"By steel and shadow, we stand! By oath and honor, we guard this land! No blade shall break, no night shall fall, The crown endures — we heed the call!"
The words echoed off the cliffs, not a chant of rage, but of certainty—of duty fulfilled. The mountains carried it far, as if even the stone wished to remember.
The mother drew her daughter close, tears finally spilling now that fear no longer held them upright.
Lira allowed herself a small grin.
She turned fully toward them at last, lowering her hand as the last tremors faded and the Starwall sigils dimmed to a steady glow.
"It's safe," she said, voice warm beneath the armor. "You can return now. The pass is Astoria's again."
The mother bowed deeply, hands shaking. The girl clutched her skirt, eyes bright as stars.
As they moved away, guided by soldiers descending to escort survivors home, Lira looked back once—up at the cliffs, at her platoon standing tall against the sky.
The mountains were quiet.
Not empty.
Guarded.
Lira's smile faded.
It wasn't sudden—just a subtle shift, like a star dimming behind cloud. The hum beneath her boots hadn't fully settled. The mountains were quiet again, yes… but not still.
She closed her eyes for half a breath and listened—not with her ears, but with the sense that had kept her alive through a hundred battlefields.
There it was.
A wrongness. Thin. Persistent. Like a note held just off-key.
Lira turned.
Behind her, the bodies of the bandits lay scattered across the pass—some fallen where they ran, others where Starwall's precision had ended them cleanly. Blood darkened the stone. Steam rose faintly where resonance had burned hot.
She walked toward them alone.
Boots crunched softly as she stepped between the dead, her gaze sharp, calculating. The soldiers nearby noticed her change in direction and stilled, watching but not interrupting. They trusted her instincts enough not to ask.
Lira stopped beside one corpse—then another.
Her brow furrowed.
She knelt, placing two fingers just above a bandit's chest, not touching flesh but the air itself. The faintest shimmer answered her—residue, barely there, like an afterimage burned into the world.
"…You weren't just desperate," she murmured. "You were pushed."
Her eyes lifted, scanning the pass.
Her gaze caught on movement.
Subtle. Almost nothing.
A body near the edge of the pass twitched.
Lira straightened instantly, hand already lifting as she crossed the distance in three long strides. The bandit lay on his back, armor cracked, chest still. Then—again—his fingers jerked.
"This one's alive," someone started to say behind her.
"No," Lira said quietly. "He isn't."
She stopped beside him.
The man's head rolled toward her with a wet, dragging sound that made the air seem to curdle. His eyes snapped open—and whatever looked back at her was no longer human.
Black bled from his pupils, seeping outward like ink dropped into water, veins spiderwebbing across the whites. His jaw shuddered, teeth chattering as if something inside him were forcing the muscles to move.
Lira did not step back.
She met his gaze, steady and unflinching.
The man's throat worked. A gurgling sound bubbled up, thick and wrong, as if he were drowning on land. His eyes lost focus, rolling slightly as the black spread further, pulsing with a sick, uneven rhythm.
Then—just before the light finally left him—his mouth moved with purpose.
Not pleading.
Not screaming.
Whispering.
"Find…" he rasped, voice layered, fractured, as though more than one breath spoke through him. "…the Songweaver."
The black receded in an instant. The body went slack.
Dead.
The mountain fell silent.
Lira remained where she was, slowly lowering her hand as a chill crept up her spine—not fear, but recognition.
"…Songweaver," she repeated under her breath.
Behind her, the wind shifted through the pass, carrying the word away like a note released into the world—one that had just been answered somewhere far, far away.
Lira rose slowly, the weight of the word still echoing in her chest.
Her expression had changed—not alarmed, not shaken—but sharpened into something cold and precise. Whatever this was, it wasn't rumor. It wasn't theory.
She had seen it before.
"Messenger," she said, voice cutting cleanly through the hush.
A soldier broke from formation instantly, helm tucked under his arm. "Commander."
Lira didn't look away from the body as she spoke. "You will ride for the capital immediately. No stops. No intermediaries."
She finally turned, eyes hard as star-forged steel. "You will deliver this message directly to the Emperor."
The messenger straightened. "Yes, Commander."
"Tell him," Lira continued, choosing every word with care, "that the Kethril Pass attack was not banditry. The dead showed signs of external compulsion—resonance corruption consistent with pre-seal Chaos influence."
A ripple moved through the nearby soldiers. They didn't speak.
"Tell him," she went on, "that one host spoke before death. A directive."
Her jaw tightened.
"Find the Songweaver."
"He will know what it means," Lira said quietly.
The messenger bowed deeply. "Understood, Commander."
He turned and ran, boots pounding toward the waiting horses.
Lira watched him go, then looked back to the mountains.
The stone hummed—soft, deliberate.