Don't Make Me Sad
The sun had yet to breach the horizon, leaving the world suspended in violet twilight. Loriana slept, the boisterous energy of the previous night's diverse gatherings silenced by the pre-dawn chill. Inside the command tower, the only light came from the dying embers in the hearth and a single dim Lumite lamp on the heavy oak desk.
He could hear the door of his office open.
"I see... You've come."
Zachary said. His back faced the visitor in the room while he looked at the glass window that overlooked the town he protected. The young commander didn't turn around, his silhouette sharp against the greying window.
"The usual." Hank said, stepping into the pool of amber light. He wasn't wearing his standard company colors, but rather the unassuming, drab garb of a traveling 'mercenary for hire'. "Nobody loves early mornings like a man with too much on his mind."
Hank leaned his heavy crossbow against the wall with delicate care. Compared to other Castalia members, he might be the one of the oldest members that had joined Zachary during the early days after the devastating Ardenian Civil War twelve years ago. Back then, he had deserted the Royal Army to follow Zachary's idealism.
It was also because he could repay what Zachary had done to protect young Bob back then. But now, Bob was dead.
"I'm accepting the assignment," Hank said without preamble. "Bleckleburg. Closest city across the southern borderline into the Holy Empire."
Zachary nodded slowly. "Asep called it 'PsyOps' and 'Astroturfing', made-up words to describe this phenomenon." He turned, his face calm but his eyes sharp. "He thinks this cult isn't just organic fanaticism sprouting from despair. He believes it's being watered. Cultivated to destabilize the region from the bottom up, creating a pretext for intervention."
"Grassroots movement controlled by a foreign hand," Hank grunted. "It's the classic move of those hypocrites in white robes. Cripple the region, then offer salvation. If the Church is funding the Eclipse to weaken our southern flank, we need proof. Concrete proof."
"Are you ready?" Zachary asked, his gaze drifting to the crossbow. "This is deep cover, Hank. If you're caught on Holy Empire soil... not even Adreana can save you. They'll burn you as a heretic spy."
Hank let out a dry chuckle. He picked up the weapon, running his gloved fingers along its stock. "I've been a ghost since the Civil War, boy. You know that. Infiltrating enemy lines, playing double agent... it's the only dance I know these days."
He held the crossbow up, admiring the modifications. "Besides, I've got a new toy. Pass my thanks to the little witch and the smoker. They did something unholy to this thing."
He pulled a lever on the side. With a slick, mechanical *click-clack*, a new bolt dropped instantly into the groove from a top-mounted magazine, the string drawing back via a complex system of gears and pulleys.
"Asep called it 'Semi-Automatic Van Helsing style'," Hank murmured, looking at the lethal mechanism. "Whatever that means. But it reloads faster than I can blink. Bob... He would have loved this."
A shadow crossed his face, a fleeting moment of raw pain that he quickly masked behind his hard face.
"Guess he's watching now. The least I can do is send a few more bastards his way to keep him company."
Hank slung the heavy weapon over his shoulder, adjusting the strap. "I'll be gone before the sun hits the cobbles. Don't expect reports for a while. Bleckleburg is a fortress of paranoia these days."
Zachary extended a hand. "Walk in shadows, old man. Your pension is waiting when you get back."
Hank grasped the hand, his grip like iron. "Keep the tea hot, Commander. And keep those kids alive. I'm getting too old for funerals."
With a nod, the veteran ranger turned and slipped out the door, moving with a silence that belied his size. Zachary watched him go, the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders like a leaden cloak. He turned back to the window as the first sliver of orange sunlight pierced the eastern sky.
Another piece on the board was moving. He prayed it wouldn't be sacrificed.
***
Asep sat on the dew-soaked grass of Lorian Hill, his legs dangling over the edge as he watched the town slowly stir awake beneath a blanket of dawn mist. The air was crisp, biting at his exposed neck, but the cold did little to cool the nervous heat simmering in his chest. He pulled his thin cloak tighter, fumbling for a cigarette that wasn't there, cursing under his breath as his fingers met empty pockets. Right. Tobacco shortage. Still.
He leaned back on his palms, staring at the chimney smoke beginning to curl from the rooftops below. Roake was a day and a half away. A chaotic pit of desperation and fanatics. But that wasn't what had his stomach tying itself into knots. It was *her*.
Adeline.
Just thinking about her name made a weird pressure build behind his ribs. It unlocked a vague memory of his childhood. Something about a girl he met during his time as a street rat when he was still in Elementary School. He didn't know her name, nor did he know who she was.
When he saw Adeline, he just felt she had the same vibe as that girl he met.
"The fuck am I supposed to say?" he muttered to the uncaring wind.
He ran scenarios through his head, each one more cringe-inducing than the last.
Scenario A: Professional.
"Greetings, Adeline. I possess intelligence regarding supply line logistics and enemy movements. We should synergize our efforts for optimal cult-crushing efficiency."
Too stiff. He sounded like a corporate drone reading a PowerPoint presentation. She'd probably think he hit his head.
Scenario B: The Chad Approach.
"Yo. Heard you were trapped in a city full of lunatics. Came to bust you out, babe. Let's blow this joint."
Asep physically shuddered. No. Just no. He wasn't some smooth-talking anime protagonist. If he tried that, he'd probably trip over his own tongue and accidentally insult her ancestors.
Scenario C: The Tragic Hero.
"I've walked through fire to find you... my heart could not bear the silence..."
Barf. He sounded like a bad soap opera actor. Plus, Adeline was practical. She'd probably offer him a tissue and ask if he was drunk.
He groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. Why was punching a two-hundred-pound cultist easier than talking to one girl? It was stupid. Not that he was unable to talk to a woman. He was doing just fine with Sylvanne, Treste, hell, even the Princess. But with Adeline? It felt different. Heavy. Like every word mattered too much.
Adeline was... nice. The kind of person who held things together when everything was falling apart. She reminded him of simpler times, of kindness he hadn't earned. And that terrified him. Because people like that got hurt when they stood next to people like him.
He sighed, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers.
"Act natural," he whispered. "Just... be normal. Like nothing happened. Like I didn't spend weeks ignoring her because I'm an emotional coward."
His plan solidified: Just walk in. Say hi. Talk about the mission. Maybe crack a joke about the terrible food. Treat her like Stark, or Karl. No weirdness. No longing stares. Just business, with a sprinkle of Asep-brand nonchalance.
"Yeah. Easy. 'Hey Adeline, long time no see. Ready to kill some cultists?' Boom. Done."
He nodded to himself, feeling slightly better. It was a solid and foolproof plan.
"Talking to yourself again?"
"Anjing goblok!" Asep jumped two inches in the air in surprise.
He whirled around to see Treste standing behind him. She was wearing her oversized witch hat, which looked comically large against the dawn sky, and dragging a large, reinforced leather satchel that seemed to weigh almost as much as she did. Her face was flushed, either from the morning cold or the effort of hauling the bag.
"The hell are ya doing here, Witch-let?!" Asep said while trying to calm his heart. Not that he was scared, it was because the thing he said earlier was embarrassing as hell. He just hoped Treste hadn't heard it.
"Ruuude! Who're you calling 'Witch-let'?!" Treste puffed her cheeks. "I am the Great Sorceress Treste Comte Mordeau! Show some respect to your senior partner in scientific revolution!"
She dropped the heavy bag to the ground. "And to answer your rude question, Zachary told me you were leaving for Roake. Infiltration mission. Very hush-hush."
She kicked the bag towards him. "So, I made you some things. Consider it a field test."
Asep looked at the bag, then back at her. "Things?"
"Some modifications and perfections of your ideas like the 'Hidden Blade' mechanism, 'Grappling Hook', 'Smoke Bombs', and 'Stink Bombs'." She listed off on her fingers. "Also, a prototype 'Shock Glove' based on that static electricity concept you blabbered about. It uses a Lumite lightning spell to discharge a non-lethal—well, mostly non-lethal jolt."
"Damn... that's a lot of stuff." Asep looked at the satchel, immediately picked it up, and examined the contents like a kid in a toy store. There was indeed a glove with a blade mechanism, a rope with a crude grappling mechanism, and some suspicious round objects. "I can't bring most of these, though. But the glove with a Hidden Blade could be useful. And the grappling hook, also."
"Of course it's useful! I made it!" Treste huffed, crossing her arms and looking away, though Asep could see a pleased little smile tugging at her lips.
He picked up the glove. It was a fingerless leather gauntlet with a string attached to a ring on the pinky finger. He put it on and flexing his hand. It fit perfectly. He felt a mechanism under his wrist, then he flicked his hand back while pulling the ring with his pinky finger.
Schlink!
A six-inch steel blade shot out from under his wrist with a satisfying metallic ring.
"Whoa..." Asep grinned, turning his wrist to admire the deadly little surprise. "Okay, this is sick. Very 'Assassin's Creed' of you."
"I don't know what an 'Assassin Creed' is, but I assume it means 'Genius work of Treste'," she declared smugly. She then hesitated, her expression softening into something uncharacteristically serious. She fiddled with the brim of her hat.
"Just don't break them, okay? And... try not to die. Who else is going to explain what a 'Combustion Engine' is if you get sacrificed to a black sun?"
Asep retracted the blade with another flick and looked at her. Beneath the arrogance and the silly hat, he saw a lonely kid who had finally found someone who understood her weird language of gears and mana.
He reached out and patted her head, messing up her carefully styled lilac hair.
"Hey! My hair!" She tried to slap his hand away but didn't actually move her head.
"Don't worry, Witch-let," Asep said, his grin genuine this time. "I've got too many bad habits to die young. Besides, I still need you to build me that motorcycle."
He hoisted the satchel, slinging it over his shoulder along with his own pack. The weight felt good. Reassuring.
"Alright. I'm off. Keep the lab from exploding while I'm gone."
"Hmph! As if! Go away, you brute!" She turned her back on him, hugging her grimoire to her chest.
Asep chuckled and started walking down the hill towards the southern gate. As the town of Loriana woke up around him, the anxiety about Adeline faded, replaced by a grim determination.
*People are desperate,* he thought, adjusting the strap of the new gear. *They need help. Adeline needs help.*
Time to go to work.
---
Deep within the Roake Mines—Sector 7 Quarantine Chamber
The descent into the heart of Roake's defunct mining network was like descending into the bowels of hell.
Hundreds of feet below the surface, the shaft widened into a massive, carved-out chamber that had once been a bustling hub of industrial activity. Scaffolding of rotting wood and rusted iron clung to the walls. Old carts full of discarded stone lay overturned on abandoned rails. The scent of sweat, copper, and something sickly sweet—like rotting fruit—hung heavy in the stagnant underground heat.
But this was no longer a place of honest labor.
Torches mounted in iron brackets cast long, flickering shadows across a nightmare tableau. Dozens of gaunt figures, their bodies skeletal from malnutrition, swung pickaxes with the mechanical, listless rhythm of the condemned. Each swing sent a dull *thunk* echoing through the cavern as steel bit into veins of raw Lumite embedded in the stone. The glowing azure mineral pulsed faintly with each strike, like a dying heartbeat.
No one spoke. No one sang the old miners' songs. There was only the rhythmic percussion of labor, punctuated by the occasional wet cough or the clatter of a dropped tool.
Around the perimeter of the chamber, robed figures stood like statues. They wore the distinctive indigo cloaks of the Children of the Eclipse, their faces obscured by deep hoods. Each "Enforcer" gripped a long, barbed whip that coiled at their feet like sleeping serpents. Their silence was more oppressive than any shouted order.
At the center of the chamber, on a raised platform of carved obsidian that looked more like an altar than a foreman's podium, stood Overseer Estella Aria.
She was a vision of serene cruelty.
Her flowing, midnight-blue hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of silk, the color shifting to an unnatural cyan gradient at the tips. It framed a delicate, almost doll-like face with sharp, aristocratic features. Her eyes were luminous teal—pretty, mesmerizing, and utterly devoid of warmth. She wore the ceremonial robes of a high-ranking Eclipse cultist, a complex garment of layered indigo and violet silks fastened with a crystalline brooch shaped like a crescent moon bisecting a circle. The robe clung to her slender figure in a way that seemed designed to evoke both reverence and unease.
She stood perfectly still, hands clasped in front of her, watching the miners toil with a satisfied smile.
A thin man near the far wall stumbled. His pickaxe slipped from his trembling grip, clattering to the stone floor. He fell to one knee, gasping, his chest heaving. His face was a mask of grime and exhaustion, eyes sunken into deep hollows. He looked sixty. He was probably thirty.
One of the Enforcers moved instantly, his whip uncoiling with a sharp cracking sound that echoed like a gunshot.
SNAP!
The barbed tip lashed across the fallen man's back, tearing through his filthy tunic and drawing a line of crimson. The man screamed, a raw, broken sound that had no strength left in it.
"Work," the Enforcer said flatly, his voice muffled by his hood. "Or rest."
The other miners flinched but didn't stop their labor. They knew what "rest" meant there.
The fallen man tried to rise, planting his palms against the stone, his arms shaking. But his body betrayed him. His vision swam. His muscles gave out.
"I'm... I'm at my limit... Please, have mercy..."
He collapsed forward, his cheek hitting the cold floor.
The Enforcer raised his whip again, but before it could fall, a soft voice rang out, melodic and gentle, like a lullaby sung over a grave.
"Cease."
Every Enforcer froze. The whip hung mid-air, quivering.
Overseer Estella Aria descended from the platform with the grace of a phantom gliding down stone steps. Her movements were unhurried, elegant, almost regal. The hem of her robes whispered across the rough floor as she approached the collapsed miner.
She knelt beside him, the motion so smooth it seemed choreographed. She tilted her head, her teal eyes studying him with the dispassionate curiosity of a child examining a broken insect.
"You've worked hard, haven't you?" Estella's voice was soft, soothing, maternal even. She reached out and gently brushed a lock of sweat-soaked hair from the man's forehead. "So very hard. And for what? Lumite for masters who never knew your name. For nobles who never saw your suffering."
The miner coughed, blood flecking his cracked lips. He tried to speak, but no words came.
Estella smiled, radiant and warm. "Shh. Don't strain yourself. I understand. You're tired. So, so tired." She placed a delicate hand on his shoulder, her touch feather-light. "But your suffering was not in vain. The Great Eclipse has seen you. It knows your pain. And it offers you what no king, no republic, no god of light ever could."
She leaned in close, her lips nearly brushing his ear as she whispered:
"Salvation."
The man's bloodshot eyes widened. He shook his head weakly, a whimper escaping his throat. "No... no... please... I... I have... kids..."
"You will see them again," Estella said gently, stroking his filthy hair as if comforting a frightened child. "In the new world. A world without hunger. Without chains. Without suffering. A paradise born from the ashes of this broken, cruel existence."
She stood, gesturing to the Enforcers with a graceful sweep of her hand.
"Bring him to the Chamber."
"NO! NO, PLEASE! PLEASE, I HAVE A FAMILY! I HAVE—"
Two Enforcers seized the screaming man by the arms, hauling him upright even as his legs kicked uselessly against the ground. Iron manacles were clamped around his wrists, the chains rattling as they dragged him across the floor towards a tunnel at the back of the chamber. A tunnel that glowed with an unnatural, sickly violet light.
The other miners watched in silent horror, their faces pale, their grips tightening on their pickaxes. But none moved. None dared.
Estella followed the procession at a leisurely pace, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She hummed a soft, tuneless melody as they entered the tunnel.
---
The "Chamber" was a smaller, circular room carved deep into the bedrock. Its walls were lined with veins of Lumite so dense they glowed like bioluminescent wounds in the stone. But this wasn't the clean, azure radiance of natural Lumite. This light was tainted, pulsing with streaks of deep purple and crimson, as if the mineral itself had been infected.
At the center of the chamber was a platform surrounded by a ritual circle etched into the floor. Runes in a language older than the kingdom twisted and coiled in intricate, maddening patterns. Around the circle stood six robed acolytes, their heads bowed in reverence, chanting in a cadence that vibrated in the bones.
"No! Please, no! I can still work!" The miner screamed and struggled as the Enforcers chained him to a vertical iron frame in the center of the circle. His screams echoed off the stone, but the chanting never faltered.
Estella stepped to the edge of the circle, her expression serene. She raised one delicate hand, fingers splayed.
The chanting stopped.
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
"Witness," Estella intoned, her voice now carrying an eerie resonance that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, "the mercy of the Great Eclipse. This man was broken by the false light. He was worked to death by kings and merchants who saw him as nothing but meat and sweat. But we... we see his truth. His pain. His yearning for peace."
"Please! Don't do this! I can still work! I'LL KEEP WORKING!!"
She turned her glowing teal eyes to the chained man, her smile widening just a fraction.
"And so, we set him free."
Estella thrust her hand forward.
The Lumite veins in the walls erupted with light, flooding the chamber with a blinding violet radiance. The ritual circle on the floor ignited, runes blazing like molten gold. A surge of raw magical energy, thick and oily, poured from the stone directly into the man's body.
The miner's screams reached a pitch that no longer sounded human.
His body convulsed violently, muscles spasming as the corrupted energy invaded his flesh. His skin began to ripple, veins turning black as tar beneath the surface. His eyes rolled back, showing only bloodshot whites.
And then the transformation began.
Jagged shards of purple-tinged Lumite erupted from his spine, tearing through his tunic and splitting his skin like rotten fabric. His bones cracked audibly, elongating and twisting into unnatural angles. His jaw dislocated with a wet *pop*, stretching wider, wider, until his face was a grotesque parody of a human skull. His teeth fell out, replaced by rows of crystalline fangs that glowed faintly in the dark.
His flesh turned purple, stretching taut over his warped skeleton. Where his eyes had been, two empty sockets now glowed with the same sickly violet light as the corrupted Lumite.
The screaming stopped.
The chains went slack as the thing that had been a man slumped forward, breathing in slow, rattling gasps.
Estella lowered her hand, her expression one of maternal satisfaction.
"Rise, my child," she whispered.
The creature's head snapped up.
It rose to its full height, now towering at nearly seven feet, limbs elongated and grotesque. It turned its eyeless, glowing sockets towards Estella. And then, with slow, jerky movements, it knelt before her.
"Good," Estella murmured, reaching out to stroke the top of its crystalline-spiked head as if petting a loyal hound. "You are reborn. Free from pain. Free from doubt. You are one with the Eclipse now. Eternal and perfect."
The creature made a low, guttural sound, not quite a growl, not quite a moan. It tilted its head, awaiting her command.
Estella turned to the gathered acolytes and Enforcers.
"Add him to the vanguard," she ordered, her tone businesslike once more. "We will need every thrall in case Castalia and the others come for us. And-"
Her words stopped as a scout came to the Chamber, his breath ragged.
"Overseer Aria! The rebels! They are attacking the west district!"
"Again? How amusing.." She giggled. "It seems our dear guests from Merlesia really are persistent."
She gestured dismissively.
"Send the thralls. Crush the rebellion. Spare none who refuse conversion."
The scout bowed deeply and ran back up the tunnel. Estella turned back to the platform, ascending the steps with the same unhurried grace. She looked down at the remaining miners, who had watched the entire ritual through the tunnel entrance, frozen in mute terror.
"Do not fear, my dear laborers," she said sweetly. "Your time will come soon enough. The Great Eclipse loves you all. And when the final dawn is extinguished and the eternal night descends... you will all be saved."
___
West District of Roake—Former Copper Breaker Territory
The West District of Roake was a monument to broken dreams and shattered promises.
Once, it had been a thriving shantytown built from the refuse of wealthier settlements—tarps scavenged from torn wagons, wooden planks pried from abandoned carts, rusted corrugated metal salvaged from decommissioned mining shacks. It clung to the steep slopes of the quarry like a desperate organism refusing to die, stacked houses leaning against each other in defiance of gravity and good sense. Narrow alleys snaked between the structures, filthy streams of runoff trickling down through gutters carved into bedrock.
It had been a den of thieves, cutthroats, and desperate laborers. But it had also been alive.
Now, it was a warzone.
Smoke billowed from three separate fires, thick black columns rising into the grey sky. The sound of clashing steel, screaming, and the sound of bodies hitting stone echoed through the district. Makeshift barricades of overturned carts and splintered furniture blocked the main thoroughfare, manned by ragged men and women armed with rusted pipes, pickaxes, and the occasional stolen sword.
On one side of the barricade: the Resistance.
On the other: the Eclipse zealots and some thralls.
And in the middle of the chaos, directing the defense with calm, clipped orders, was Adeline.
She stood atop a reinforced barricade cobbled together from mining carts and iron beams, her crossbow aimed at the tide of cultists surging down the narrow street. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a severe, practical knot, and her simple wool tunic was stained with soot and blood. A leather bandolier of bolts crossed her chest, and a knife was strapped to her thigh.
Determination etched onto her face, brown eyes scanning the battlefield like someone who had learned command through sheer necessity.
"Jeremiah! Left flank! They're trying to climb through the scaffolding!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the noise.
"I see 'em!" came the gravelly reply.
Jeremiah—Old Man Jerry to anyone who valued their teeth was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, his grey beard braided in a warrior's knot. He wore the battered leather apron of a mine foreman, reinforced with scavenged plate on the shoulders and chest. In his massive hands, he wielded a sledgehammer so large it looked like it belonged in a giant's forge. He was positioning a group of miners near the left side of the barricade, their faces pale but resolute.
"Hold that line!" Jerry roared, slamming his hammer into the ground for emphasis. "Any bastard in a robe comes through, you bash his skull in and ask questions never!"
A cultist scrambled over a pile of rubble, his eyes wild with fanaticism, raising a crude spear.
Jerry swung.
The hammer met the cultist's torso with a sound like a watermelon hitting pavement. The body was launched backward through the ruins of a collapsed shack, where it crumpled in a broken heap.
"Next!" Jerry bellowed, spitting to the side.
Meanwhile, on the right flank, a section of the barricade shuddered under the weight of a coordinated push. A dozen cultists, protected by crude wooden shields, were ramming the barrier in unison, chanting hymns to the Eclipse with glassy-eyed devotion.
"Brenda!" Adeline called.
"On it."
Brenda was already moving. Unlike the others, she was not dressed in rags or scavenged armor. She wore a pristine white uniform with a crimson cape flowing from a golden pauldron—her attire as the Princess's shadow. Her rapier was unsheathed, the blade catching the light like a silver thread. She moved with the fluid grace of a master duelist, precise and effortless.
She vaulted over the barricade in a single leap, landing in the middle of the cultist formation with the poise of a dancer.
The chanting stopped.
"W-what the—"
Brenda's rapier flashed.
Three cultists dropped before they even realized they'd been cut, red lines blooming across their throats. The remaining zealots raised their weapons, screaming battle cries as they charged her.
Brenda didn't waste breath on words.
She sidestepped the first spear thrust, her blade deflecting it easily. A twist of her wrist, and the tip of her rapier punched through the cultist's eye socket. She withdrew the blade in one smooth motion, pivoting to parry a downward strike from a second attacker. Her counter was instant—a lunge that pierced the cultist's heart with surgical precision.
The last four shocked, and wanted to run away.
But Brenda did not gave them any opportunity.
"[Moonlight Sword Art - Waxing Moon]"
She dashed forward, her rapier trailing silver light. The blade moved in a crescent arc, so fast it was a blur. Four bodies fell in sequence, their blood painting the cobblestones in a perfect arc. Brenda flicked her wrist, shaking the gore from her blade, and turned back towards the barricade without a word.
Adeline gave her a single nod of acknowledgment.
"Incoming!" someone shouted.
A cultist hurled a burning bottle filled with oil over the barricade. It shattered against the ground, spilling liquid fire across the makeshift fortifications.
"Water! We need water!" a young refugee screamed, panicking as flames licked at the wooden beams.
"Forget the water!" came a new voice, sharp and commanding.
From the shadows of a ruined tenement emerged Idia, the leader of the Copper Breaker gang.
She was a vision of controlled violence.
Her wild, blonde hair was cropped short and spiky, framing a scarred, angular face with eyes like molten gold. She wore a sleeveless green halter top that left her toned midriff exposed, paired with dark, oil-stained trousers tucked into heavy combat boots. A battered leather jacket with metal studs hung open from her shoulders, and fingerless gloves covered her knuckles—knuckles that were wrapped in bloodied cloth from countless fights.
But the most striking feature was the necklace that hung from her neck.
A shard of Blood Lumite, deep crimson and pulsing with a faint, malevolent glow. It was encased in a crude iron cage on a thick chain, resting against her collarbone like a heartbeat forged from rage.
Idia clenched her fists, and the Blood Lumite flared.
Her body exploded with motion.
She blurred forward, her speed was inhumanly fast, closing the distance to the flames in the span of a single breath. Her fist slammed into the burning barricade with the impact so powerful it shattered the wooden beam entirely, snuffing out the fire through sheer kinetic force.
A cultist, too slow to react, gaped at her.
Idia grabbed him by the throat with her left hand, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. Her golden eyes burned with fury.
"You turned Elesia into this," she hissed, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "You sick fucks turned the woman I loved into a rock."
She hurled the cultist into a stone wall, killing him instantly. His body slid to the ground, unmoving.
Another cultist rushed her from behind, raising a curved dagger.
"Embrace The Eclipse, filthy woman!"
Idia spun, her elbow catching the attacker's jaw with the force of a sledgehammer. The cultist's head snapped to the side, neck breaking audibly. His body crumpled mid-step.
More cultists poured in, emboldened by fanaticism.
The Blood Lumite around her neck pulsed brighter, feeding on her hatred. She felt its whisper, its corruption, the promise of more power.
Let me in. Let me show you strength.
But Idia's hatred was a shield. She hated the cultists more than the darkness hated light. Every time the corruption tried to creep into her thoughts, she crushed it beneath the memory of Elesia's smile, her laugh, the warmth of her hand.
"Not today, you parasite," Idia muttered under her breath.
She launched herself into the crowd of cultists.
Her fists became weapons of annihilation. A jab shattered ribs. A hook sent teeth flying. She caught a spear mid-thrust and snapped it in half over her knee, then drove the broken end through its wielder's gut. A cultist tried to stab her from the side; she caught his wrist, twisted until it broke, and used his own blade to gut him.
Blood sprayed. Bones shattered. The cultists fell like wheat before a scythe.
One of them, braver—or more deluded—than the rest, pointed at her necklace and screamed, "She wears the cursed stone! She is already one of us! She will turn!"
Idia grabbed him by the collar, pulling his terrified face inches from hers.
"You're right," she whispered, her voice cold and deadly. "I'm cursed. And that curse is gonna be the last thing you see."
She headbutted him. His skull cracked and he dropped like a sack of potato.
Idia stood amidst the carnage, breathing hard, her knuckles dripping red. The Blood Lumite pulsed once more, then dimmed.
"Pull back! Pull back! Where are the Thralls?! Regroup!"
The cultists began retreating, dragging their wounded, their zealotry finally overridden by self-preservation.
Adeline lowered her crossbow, exhaling slowly. "Good work, everyone. Secure the line. Treat the wounded. We've bought ourselves another hour."
Idia wiped her bloody hands on her trousers and walked back to the barricade, her expression unreadable. Jerry clapped her on the shoulder with a hand the size of a dinner plate.
"You fight like a demon possessed, girl," he said with grudging respect.
"Good," Idia replied flatly. "Because I am- blergh!"
She gurgled a mouthful of blood, stumbling against a broken piece of rubble.
"Boss!" Two of her subordinates quickly helped her.
"I'm fine. I just pushed too hard with the Blood Lumite." Idia spat on the ground. "Heh... This thing is gonna kill me one day."
Brenda approached, sheathing her rapier. "You should rest. The Blood Lumite is eating you from the inside."
"Thanks for your concern, Lady. But I'm fine."
Adeline descended from the barricade, her calm demeanor never cracking. She looked out over the smoke-filled district, her jaw tight.
"They'll come back," she said. "But at least we're securing this area."
She turned to the militiamen. "Secure the perimeter! Gather the wounded and erect more barricades! We should make a safehouse around here and strengthen our position!"
"On it, Ma'am!" They replied.
While Brenda and the militiamen helped with the wounded, Adeline and Jeremiah discussed the next steps to prepare a supply line for the resistance. Idia just stared at the Blood Lumite, the only remnant of her sweetheart.
____