Chapter 25: The Weight of a Life

  Firelight warped the ruins into jagged monsters. Screams unraveled into the wind. Blood glossed the earth like spilled ink.

  Sweat and death choked the air.

  Joran was new to this.

  War, bloodshed, the sheer violence of it all.

  He wasn’t a fighter like Daelin or Kai. He wasn’t like the outsiders—not like Team Taren,the ones who had arrived with their strange weapons, their unwavering focus, their ability to carve through battle as if they had done it a thousand times before.

  But he wasn’t weak, either.

  His mind churned—not just with the battle before him, but the one behind. A man—if you could call it that. The way he moved, twisted, flickered in and out of existence like a thought half-formed, something the world itself struggled to contain. That fight had drained him, tested him in ways he never imagined.

  And yet, here he was—

  Fighting again. Fighting still.

  His eyes darted across the battlefield, scanning for sense, for order—but there was none. Just chaos. Just the struggle to survive.

  Ren—down. Unmoving. His blades limp at his sides. One more body in the storm.

  Taren—shield arm heavy, armor dragging, but still standing.

  Elda—daggers flashing like silver lightning, the only one still moving with purpose while the rest of them staggered toward ruin.

  Daelin.

  Not just holding the line—leading it. His blade cut through the madness with sharp, measured efficiency, not a single movement wasted. Where Taren braced and Elda flowed, Daelin carved forward—every step a claim, every strike a warning.

  He was a wall, but not the kind that stood still—one that pushed back. The Catalyst forces surged, trying to break past, but Daelin was there, blade flashing, feet planted, striking hard enough to kill and fast enough to keep moving.

  Joran had fought beside good warriors before—fierce ones, ruthless ones—but Daelin was something else. Not reckless. Not desperate. Just certain. The kind of fighter who understood the weight of every battle and still chose to fight anyway.

  For the first time, Joran felt something like respect.

  And for the first time, he wondered if even that would be enough.

  Kai. Varis. Not in the fight, but not gone either.

  Joran’s gaze cut toward the Hall of Talking Fire. Torches flared against the night, shadows clawing at the stone as the trees cast jagged scars across the plaza. This was it. The fallback point. The last line. And every warrior standing there knew it.

  Kai—rigid, spear drawn, planted at the threshold like a living barricade. A handful of others flanked him, bloodied but standing. They weren’t moving, weren’t charging, just watching. Every clash, every scream, every last, gasping breath just beyond their reach.

  Above—Varis. Shadowed by torchlight, peering down from the Hall’s window. Not a fighter, but Joran could see it—that sharp, unrelenting focus, tracking every shift below. If Kai was the shield, Varis was the knife. Not in the fight, but looking for the cracks before they could split open.

  Inside, more warriors stood behind the doors, blades drawn but still. Not stepping in. Not yet. This was where they would fall back to. If it came to that.

  And Joran wasn’t sure if it would.

  Then, beyond them two figures.

  One—feral, untamed. A thing unshackled from reason, bound only to violence. His movements were not a warrior’s, not a soldier’s—no discipline, no calculation. Just devastation, thrown from muscle and bone like an afterthought. He struck with the kind of force that did not seek to kill, only to break. And when it broke, it never rose again.

  Blood streaked his skin, but it wasn’t just his own.

  The other—a storm unraveling. A figure once defined by control, now pulled toward the edge of something wrong. His armor, once a second skin, now dragged at his movements like chains, heavy with the weight of a body turning against itself. Every breath trembled. Every motion cracked.

  His veins blackened, a creeping sickness carving its way through him. Skin splitting like old parchment, as if something inside was clawing its way free. He had once fought with balance, with certainty. Now, his footing wavered—one foot in the world of men, the other slipping toward something unknowable.

  A single moment stretched between them, fragile as glass, between what was and what was coming.

  And in that breath—

  Joran saw it.

  The breaking point.

  And then—

  Nyri and Orinai.

  Joran’s stomach twisted as he spotted them, their backs turned, their focus on something else—unaware of the hulking, twisted mercenary moving toward them, its grotesque limbs writhing, eyes dark with something too far gone.

  “I wish it could be normal,” he muttered, breathless. Then, gritted between his teeth—“But fuck.”

  He moved.

  Lightning-fast, spear held tight, his momentum crashing toward the mercenary. His weapon struck true—slamming into the creature’s side with devastating precision, the force launching it off balance.

  At the same time, Korvan broke away from Havrin, his massive form shifting with terrifying efficiency.

  The mercenary reeled from Joran’s attack—

  And Korvan was there to meet it.

  Joran barely had time to process before Korvan grabbed the mercenary mid-air and slammed him into the earth with enough force to shatter bone and ground alike.

  The battlefield paused.

  The mercenaries—those still standing—hesitated, confusion flickering across their faces. Why? Why had Korvan killed one of their own?

  Joran didn’t care. He turned to Nyri and Orinai. “Get out of here, now!”

  Nyri moved fast, reaching for Orinai—but Orinai wasn’t moving. His limbs shook, his face locked in a dazed expression, breath coming too fast. Ren was nearby, also unable to move.

  Joran scanned the battlefield, looking for an out, a way to get them away from the fight. There—a half-collapsed structure, a pocket of safety amid the carnage.

  He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Ren by the arm, hauling him up and hurling him toward the safer ground. Nyri struggled with Orinai, but Joran wasn’t going to let them waste time.

  “Move!” he barked, shoving Orinai forward, forcing his legs to work. The kid stumbled, but the urgency broke through his paralysis, and with Nyri’s help, they scrambled toward safety.

  A reverbating roar. A tremor that ran through the ground, setting Joran’s teeth on edge.

  The air warped, the very space around him seeming to bend. The energy surged,shifting his presence into something monstrous.

  Joran barely had time to process it before Korvan moved.

  Faster than anything his size should be capable of.

  A blur. A clawed fist. A solid wall of force—

  The impact shattered the air. His ribs cracked, the sheer force launching him across the battlefield like a ragdoll. His body collided with broken wood and blood-stained dirt, tumbling in a brutal, boneless roll before coming to a stop.

  Pain. White-hot. Drowning.

  His vision swam. His fingers twitched, trying to find something—anything—to hold onto. His breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs refusing to fill properly.

  He wasn’t dead.

  But he was close.

  The battlefield held its breath.

  Then—

  A shadow fell over him.

  Joran looked up through the chaos, blinking blood out of his eyes.

  The battle was gone. Only slaughter remained.

  Korvan had transcended humanity, becoming something else entirely.

  And the fight had only just begun.

  The scent of blood hit him first.

  Thick, metallic—sharp in the back of his throat. It mixed with the acrid bite of burning wood, curling through the air like something alive. Smoke twisted between the fractured buildings, dark shadows shifting in the torchlight.

  Vyn slowed his steps. The air rippled, thick with unseen hands pressing against his skin, warping reality into something fragile.

  Impact.

  Then Silence.

  Joran hit the ground hard.

  The breath ripped from his lungs, his body crumpling into broken wood and blood-streaked dirt.

  Vyn didn’t hesitate. He was already moving, bow lowering as he took quick, measured steps toward him.

  “Joran!—” His voice filled with concern “You alive? Hoping for a ‘yes’ here.”

  A weak, shuddering cough. Fingers twitching against the ground.

  Joran’s lips parted, but no words came. Instead, he lifted a shaking hand—pointing.

  Vyn followed his gaze—scanning the battlefield.

  The mercenaries.

  Taren. Elda. Daelin.

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  A fight still raging. A fight that—

  Stopped.

  A blur of motion.

  Blood unraveled into the night, a crimson bloom in the battlefield's dying breath.

  Limbs, severed from their owners, spiraled through the chaos like discarded relics of a lost battle.

  The mercenaries were there. Then they weren’t.

  Ripped from existence in a breath. Not by steel—steel was mercy.

  But by something worse.

  Something with fangs like ruin and a claw that carved fate itself.

  Vyn’s stomach twisted. He wasn’t the only one who saw it.

  From the Hall of Talking Fire—Kai and the warriors froze. Staring. Not breathing. The battle raged, the fires crackled, but in that moment, it was as if the world itself had lurched, like a breath held too long.

  Varis stood by the window, unmoving. His mouth—slightly open, words lost before they could form. He was always calculating, always ahead. But this—this wasn’t something you planned for. This was something that should not be.

  On the battlefield—Taren. Elda. Daelin. They had fought until their bodies burned, until their limbs felt like lead. Fought like dying men who refused to die. But now—

  Now, they stood frozen. Weapons gripped, but useless. Not because the fight was over.

  But because for the first time tonight—they weren’t sure if they could win.

  Vyn turned.

  And he saw it.

  It wasn't a man standing over the shredded remains of the mercenaries, nor was it a beast. It was something else entirely.

  Vyn's gut dropped. Something inside of him pulsed erratically—like a survival instinct trying to drag him away from whatever he was looking at.

  There was only a shape in the firelight at first, not fully seen. Not yet.

  The torchlight wavered, his form stretching between light and void—between what was and what should never be.

  Light kissed his hands first.

  No. Not hands. Something made for ruin.

  Claws, jagged like shattered glass, curved like the blades of a butcher’s knife. The edges gleamed, black swallowing red, their fractured reflections dancing across the carnage like shards of a broken mirror.

  Then his frame.

  Too long. Too unnatural.

  His shoulders stretched wide—a thing unmoored from human limits. The muscle beneath his skin coiled and twisted like old rope fraying under tension, straining against the weight of something unseen. His limbs belonged to nothing familiar—too broad to be a man, too poised to be a beast, balanced like a weapon never meant to be wielded.

  A slow breath left him, carving through the silence

  Then his tail.

  Not an extension of his body. A second spine. A serpent’s will.

  It slithered through the bloodied dirt, thick and segmented, every motion carrying the promise of shattered ribs and crushed bone. Not a limb. A verdict. A noose tightening.

  Then—his head.

  The fire crackled. The wind sighed like something dying.

  For a moment, something flickered in his golden eyes—recognition. A memory of a man. A battlefield, but not this one. An enemy, but not these men. A name, half-formed, buried beneath the weight of what he had become. Then it was gone.

  A lion’s snarl split the air.

  No—not a lion. Not a beast. Not a man.

  Something caught in between.

  His jaws flexed, fangs glistening like daggers still slick with the last kill. His golden eyes smoldered—not with rage, but with the hunger of a storm.

  And suddenly, Vyn knew.

  It wasn’t lost.

  It wasn’t fallen.

  It was exactly where it was meant to be.

  A nightmare, pulled into waking.

  The battlefield froze.

  Not just in fear.

  In recognition.

  A predator had entered the field.

  And they were the prey.

  A breath staggered loose. A ripple through the ranks—not retreating. Not yet. But shifting. Recalibrating.

  Weapons tightened in grips. Shields lifted. Bodies coiled with the kind of readiness that came from warriors who had seen too much and fought too long.

  Taren’s grasp tightened on his shield. A slow breath out. He had fought monsters before. But this—this was different.

  Elda shifted, daggers trembling just slightly. She was exhausted, every muscle screaming for rest. But exhaustion had never stopped her before.

  Daelin’s eyes flicked forward. Sharp. Measuring.

  Six ways this could kill them. One way they might survive.

  The numbers came slower now. His mind dragged where it should’ve snapped, the edges dulled by exhaustion. A breath—too shallow. A thought—half a second late.

  Didn’t matter.

  Because if he stopped—if he hesitated—they were dead.

  They weren’t alone.

  The warriors standing guard at the Hall of Talking Fire—Kai at the front—stepped forward. Just slightly.

  No words. No hesitation.

  A battlefield full of fighters who should have run, who should have broken apart, but didn’t.

  Not yet.

  Because this wasn’t just Vyn fighting Korvan.

  It was all of them.

  The silence shattered like glass.

  A warrior—young, with scars too few for the courage burning in his eyes—surged forward. His blade caught firelight along its edge, his battle cry not born of confidence but desperation's last, terrible hope.

  Korvan didn't flinch. Didn't prepare. Didn't acknowledge the man as anything worth noticing.

  Not the reaction of something trained in combat.

  Not the response of anything that had once been human.

  He simply moved.????????????????

  His tail lashed through the air like a whip— a blur of motion.

  A sickening crack. Bones snapping like brittle twigs.

  The warrior’s body folded before he even hit the ground. A ragged breath shuddered from his lips, then stilled.

  Korvan never slowed. Never Hesitated.

  Three warriors rushed in sync.

  One low.

  One high.

  One from behind.

  Korvan was already moving.

  No hesitation. No wasted movement.

  He twisted—pounced.

  His claws found flesh—sinking deep, parting skin like wet parchment. Bone splintered beneath his grip, brittle as autumn leaves.

  A wet, gurgling sound, as blood poured from his lips—hot, thick, painting the air in strokes of crimson.

  Korvan ripped him aside, using the body as a shield.

  A spear slammed into his ribs—

  He snarled, twisting into the pain, letting it sink deep.

  Then—he tore forward.

  The spear-wielder’s eyes widened. Too slow.

  Korvan’s teeth clamped down on his throat.

  A single shake of his head—bone snapped, flesh tore.

  The third warrior barely had time to react before Korvan’s foot came down—

  Not a kick.

  A stomp.

  Skull cracked like a dropped melon.

  Three bodies hit the dirt. Korvan was already looking for the next.

  Taren, Elda, and Daelin moved at once.

  Taren gritted his teeth against the pain in his ribs, but there was no time to stop.

  "FLANK HIM!" he bellowed, the command carrying the weight of a hundred battles fought and survived. The strategy that had saved them countless times before.

  Elda's daggers flashed toward Korvan's gut. Daelin's blade curved for his throat.

  Clean. Precise. It should have worked.

  Korvan pounced instead of dodging.

  His hand caught Daelin mid-air.

  A flicker in his golden eyes.

  A battlefield—not this one.

  An enemy—not this man.

  A moment stretched—then impact.

  Korvan hurled Daelin into the wall.

  The foundation cracked.

  Daelin felt it first. The blunt force hitting his spine, the bones in his shoulder giving way. He hit the ground hard, a wheeze of pain escaping before blood followed—dripping from his lips.

  Not broken. Not yet. But something inside had given way.

  Elda’s daggers buried into Korvan’s ankle.

  He didn’t stop.

  He kicked.

  Not a push. A kill strike.

  Elda’s ribs crunched under the impact.

  Her body lifted off the ground, her vision snapping black and white—then slammed straight into Taren.

  Taren barely had time to brace. The force rattled through his bones, aggravating the wound in his ribs.

  Something inside split further.

  He bit back the scream, teeth grinding, but blood spilled past his lips anyway.

  He couldn’t breathe. Not fully.

  His chest burned—every movement, a fresh wound tearing open.

  But he had to stand.

  Korvan snarled.

  The sound held neither frustration nor anger—only a beast savoring the hunt.

  Vyn moved before thought could catch him.

  His fingers shifted along the hilt of his blade—a metallic click.

  The attachment snapped into place, extending his weapon’s reach.

  A single chance.

  His vision blurred. His head pounded.

  He fired—

  Korvan stood like the earth itself.

  The blade barely skimmed his skin.

  Vyn’s breath hitched.

  Korvan’s eyes snapped to him.

  Then—he was there.

  A fist, a blur, a wall of death closing in—

  “MOVE!”

  Taren was there first.

  Shield up.

  The boundary between Korvan and weapon dissolved, becoming a singular force of nature.

  The shield shattered.

  Pain tore through his chest, white-hot and unforgiving.

  A gasp tore from his throat—blood spurting past his lips.

  His body slammed into the ground.

  Vyn was thrown. Hard.

  His skull crashed into the dirt. His limbs felt numb.

  His head rang. Vision swam.

  Taren

  His hands shook around the last scrap of leather—his only shield now.

  Blood ran down his arms, staining the dirt.

  He was still alive.

  But barely.

  Vyn's knees buckled. Every muscle screamed. His body was stone.

  ‘Don't fall,’ he commanded himself.

  His lungs burned, raw with exhaustion. His head swayed, dark spots flickering at the edges of his vision.

  If he let go now, he wouldn’t get back up.

  But he couldn’t pass out.

  Not yet.

  Vyn clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stand. Every motion was sluggish, like pushing through water, but he had to move—had to see.

  The wreckage. The bodies.

  Taren— facedown in the dirt, one elbow trembling beneath him, like a pillar on the verge of collapse. Blood pooled beneath him, slow, dark, seeping outward like ink spilled on a forgotten page. His breath rattled—thin, threadbare, the kind of sound that didn’t belong to the living.

  Elda— slumped against the rubble, head tilted back, staring at something she couldn’t see. One arm dead at her side, the other curled weakly against her ribs, as if even now, she was trying to hold herself together. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven jerks—breathing like a blade slipping between ribs.

  Daelin— kneeling, barely upright, shoulders shaking. He coughed—a wet, awful sound, something tearing loose inside him. Blood dripped between his fingers, a crimson thread weaving itself into the dirt.

  They were alive.

  Barely.

  Vyn swallowed, but it felt like gravel grinding down his throat.

  Korvan had left them breathing.

  And that was the worst part.

  His gaze dragged through the smoke, past the shifting bodies, past the carnage, searching. For what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe an answer. Maybe hope.

  Maybe just a reason to believe they’d survive this at all.

  His gaze found Nyri and Orinai at the edge of the battlefield.

  Nyri pulled at Orinai’s wrist, dragging him toward the Hall of Talking Fire.

  Move.

  His body was lead, his steps heavier with each breath. But he moved. That was enough.

  Joran had shoved him forward minutes ago—snapped him out of his shock.

  But the weight of everything still clung to him.

  Nyri felt it in every step. The dead pull of her body, the sheer effort of keeping him upright.

  Keep moving. Keep breathing.

  They had to go.

  Now.

  Then—

  Korvan turned.

  Not toward the hall.

  Not toward Nyri.

  Not toward Orinai.

  Something else pulled him.

  His gaze flickered—not with hesitation, but with something raw. A beast catching scent. A hunter locking onto prey.

  Blurred faces. Running children. A home in flames.

  A memory not his own.

  A fault line split open within him, a fracture too deep to mend.

  A low, rattling growl crawled from his throat.

  Nyri felt it before she saw him move.

  The air thickened—like the moment before a storm bursts.

  Then—his weight shifted.

  Predator’s stance.

  Time became measured only by the percussion within her ribcage.

  “RUN!” she screamed.

  Vyn’s mouth opened.

  Nothing came out.

  His throat clenched—raw, hoarse, useless.

  ‘Move.’

  ‘Move, damn it!’

  His brain screamed it, his lungs burned with it, but his body wouldn’t listen.

  He felt like stone. Heavy. Trapped.

  His legs should have moved. He should have been running. He should have been throwing himself forward, screaming, grabbing Orinai, pushing Nyri ahead.

  But he was stuck.

  His fingers twitched around his bow. That was all.

  A static-like ringing filled his ears. His own breath, too fast, too shallow.

  He should be moving.

  But he wasn’t.

  Korvan lunged.

  And Vyn did nothing.

  Someone was shouting.

  “GO! MOVE, DAMN IT!”

  Varis. Above.

  His voice was raw, breaking apart at the edges.

  “GET INSIDE! GET THE HELL INSIDE!”

  Kai was on the ground, trying to help one of the wounded up—one of his own men. His eyes flickered toward them—Nyri, Orinai, Vyn—then to Korvan.

  He knew. They all knew.

  They weren’t going to make it.

  Boots scraped stone. Movement. People running. Survivors shoving past each other, disappearing into the Hall of Talking Fire.

  “Vyn! Vyn, MOVE!”

  He didn’t even know who yelled it.

  Didn’t matter.

  His body still wouldn’t listen.

  Not fully. Not without feeling the wet, jagged scrape in his chest—like breathing through broken glass.

  His arm trembled. His grip on the last scrap of his shield—the leather strap still wrapped around his wrist—was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

  Blood ran down his arms, staining the dirt beneath him, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

  He could hear them. Elda. Daelin.

  Daelin was kneeling, head bowed, his shoulders shaking. His blade—once a precise, deadly extension of himself—was now just another weight pulling him down.

  He coughed—a wet, awful sound. Blood dripped between his fingers.

  Elda had barely moved.

  Her back was against a crumbling wall, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven jerks. One of her arms was limp—broken, useless. The other curled weakly against her ribs, as if trying to hold herself together. Blood streaked her lips, her breath shallow. Her knives had fallen from her grasp.

  She had never let go of them before.

  Taren tried to push himself up.

  A mistake.

  White-hot pain ripped through his ribs. The scream nearly tore from his throat, but he forced it down—his jaw locking so tight he thought his teeth might shatter.

  Korvan wasn’t even looking at them anymore.

  That’s what made it worse.

  He hadn’t killed them.

  Not out of mercy. Not out of hesitation.

  Because they weren’t worth the effort.

  Taren’s breath stuttered. A horrible, shameful thought clawed at the edges of his mind.

  Would it be easier if he just stayed down?

  No.

  No.

  He forced himself to move.

  Daelin shifted first, his arms trembling as he pushed himself upright. He spat blood, wiped his mouth, and rose to his feet like a man walking to his own grave.

  Elda gritted her teeth, her good arm pressing against the ground. The movement was slow, agonizing, but she didn’t stop. She wouldn’t.

  Taren tried again.

  This time, he made it to his knees.

  Korvan had left them breathing.

  And that was the worst part.

  A screech split the air—low, haunting. The battlefield froze.

  The sound wasn’t just heard—it was felt. It rattled through bones, pressed against skulls like a weight, something ancient, something undeniable.The same presence that haunted their legends, that children whispered about around campfires—but never truly believed.

  A single crystal feather fell. Pierced Korvan’s chest.

  The impact cracked the ground beneath him. His body jerked, claws twitching.

  His golden eyes widened—not in pain, but in recognition.

  For the first time since he fell to the Catalyst—he saw clearly. And what he saw wasn’t this battlefield. It wasn’t blood or bodies or war. It was a child’s hand reaching for his own, small fingers curling in trust. A name—his name—spoken softly in a voice he had long forgotten.

  And then, before he could grasp it—before he could hold onto what he had been—

  A second feather struck.

  Korvan’s body collapsed.

  A void.

  The battlefield held its breath, the world afraid to exhale.

  A shadow loomed over them all.

  The Ael Mirra.

  No One spoke, no one moved. Even the wounded—those barely clinging to consciousness—felt it.

  A pressure. Heavy. Vast. Suffocating.

  It wasn’t the weight of fear. It was the height of something greater.

  Its wings spread wide, a celestial monument of feathers and light. Crystalline strands shimmered as it folded its wings, golden eyes piercing through the ruin.

  Taren felt it crush against his ribs, anot with pain but something worse— something that made him feel like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into something beyond understanding.

  Minutes had passed since Korvan's assault, but for Vyn, it felt like hours as he surveyed the devastation around him.

  “No…”

  Elda’s chest rose and fell too quickly. Too sharp. Like a trapped animal trying to steady its breath, A survival instinct. Screaming that she should run—but there was not where to go.

  Daelin’s pulse thundered against his skull. His throat was dry, and for the first time in his life, he had no words. No clever remarks. No disbelief. No scoffing at stories.

  This isn’t real

  But it was.

  Varis, from above, had gone quiet. The man who never stopped talking, never hesitated—was silent.He had been able to predict outcomes, to shift things before they fell apart.

  Not this time

  Kai, clenched her jaw so tightly her teeth ached. Her knuckles were were white we she gripped her spear, as if holding it could anchor her against the sheer, overwhelming presence pressing down on them. It wasn’t fear, it wasn’t awe, it was something entirely else.

  Then—

  A shaky, trembling voice from the villagers:

  “…What is that?”

  Eyes turned—toward the oldest man in the village.

  Elder N’Kari.

  He had been silent through it all. Watching. Waiting.

  Now, he spoke.

  "…A miracle," he whispered.

  The wind swept through the forest, carrying whispers of those lost.

  Nearby, Nyri collapsed beside Orinai, her sobs breaking free.

  She couldn’t hold it back anymore.

  Neither could he.

  He buried his face into her shoulder, gripping her like he was afraid she would disappear. His shoulders shook, silent at first—then the cries came.

  A child, mourning everything at once.

  A deep breath, jagged and uneven—then the dam broke.

  The weight of survival crashed down on them.

  And one by one—

  They all began to fall.

  It wasn’t just grief.

  It was the release.

  The realization—slow, almost unreal—that they were still breathing.

  No more claws. No more death charging toward them. No more unanswered screams.

  Just the wind.

  The distant sound of crackling fire, the murmurs of the wounded. The silence that came when a battle was truly over.

  For the first time since it began, no one was fighting.

  Feathers, caught between spectral glow and jagged crystal, danced through the wind—silent messengers of judgment.

  But judgment had not fallen upon them.

  As the Ael Mirra's presence washed over the battlefield, Vyn felt the change immediately.

  The air around him didn’t just grow colder. It collapsed inward, folding around him like an unseen hand pressing against his lungs. Every breath felt thinner, as if the creature’s presence alone was rewriting the very balance of the world.

  But something in his chest loosened.

  The fight was over.

  His breath shuddered. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out everything else.

  The last thing he saw—

  The Ael Mirra, its wings still half-shifting between spectral glow and solid crystal, standing in solemn judgment.

  Its amber eyes burned. Not like fire, but like something ancient and knowing, gazing through flesh, through bone—through everything.

  A weight settled deep in Vyn’s chest. Like being seen. Like being measured.

  The creature moved.

  Slowly, it lifted its gaze, shifting from Vyn to the others—Nyri, Orinai, Kai, the wounded, the survivors.

  It watched them.

  No words, no sound. Just that gaze—piercing, unreadable.

  As if weighing the value of what remained.

  The wind stirred.

  The silence stretched.

  Then, without warning—its wings unfurled.

  Light fractured through the smoke and ruin as the Ael Mirra ascended. The force of its departure sent a rush of wind through the clearing, scattering embers and lifting the fallen feathers into the air like dying stars.

  It did not look back.

  It did not stay.

  It simply vanished, rising into the darkened sky until its glow faded beyond the clouds.

  It was gone.

  The war it had interrupted had ended.

  But not because of them.

  Because it had decided to leave.

  Vyn’s legs shook, barely holding him upright.

  A half-hysterical chuckle clawed its way up his throat, dry and broken.

  He swayed. His hands trembled. His knees nearly buckled.

  A ragged, weary, disbelieving breath.

  “…Man,” he rasped, voice hoarse with exhaustion. “I really just wanna go home.”

  His vision blurred.

  Darkness.