Deep within the heart of Tetron, where power whispered behind gilded walls and secrets were worth their weight in blood, two figures dined in quiet tension.
Golden candlelight flickered across the polished mahogany table, illuminating silver platters untouched by their occupants.
A plump man lounged in his seat, his fine silks stretching across his broad frame, jeweled rings glinting as he raised a goblet in idle celebration. Across from him, a woman of striking beauty sat poised, her expression unreadable, her gaze sharp as a drawn blade. "Congratulations on your breakthrough to the Advanced rank, General Vera." His voice was smooth, rich with feigned warmth, yet lacking any true sincerity.
Vera did not smile. She rarely did. Instead, she inclined her head ever so slightly, acknowledging the words without indulging in them. "Thank you, Count Veyra." Then, a pause. Calculated. She tilted her goblet idly, watching the wine swirl, perhaps weighing her next words like a soldier measuring the balance of a blade.
Finally, her voice cut through the still air, cool and detached. "So, back to business. Have you read my letters regarding the border situation?" No pleasantries. No wasted breath. Her tone made one thing clear—this was not a dinner among allies.
It was a battlefield of words, and she had just drawn first blood. Count Veyra dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a silk napkin, his lips curling into something that resembled a smile—or perhaps a sneer. "I have read them, General," he said smoothly, swirling the wine in his goblet. "A rather… concerning picture you paint."
Vera leaned forward slightly, setting her glass down with a deliberate click. "It is not a painting, count. It is reality. And if we do not act now, the border will collapse before the season turns."
A sudden shiver raced down General Vera's spine, sharp and unnatural, like a blade pressed to the nape of her neck. Her body knew before her mind did—something was wrong.
Her gaze flicked toward the window, her pulse steady, yet alert. Beyond the towering city walls, a fire bloomed against the night, its orange glow licking hungrily at the darkened sky. The flames twisted and writhed, chaotic and uncontrolled, a beacon of destruction. But it wasn't the fire itself that unsettled her. It was her instincts.
A deep, gnawing certainty coiled in her chest, whispering that this was no mere accident. She turned sharply, her chair scraping against the polished floor as she rose.
"Count, I'm afraid we'll have to continue this discussion another time," she said, her voice cool but firm. Veyra barely had time to blink before she shrugged on her jacket and strode toward the window.
With practiced ease, she unlatched it, the crisp night air rushing in to meet her. "General, what are you—"He never finished his sentence. With a single, fluid motion, Vera leapt onto the windowsill and vanished into the night.
The last thing Count Veyra saw was the flick of her coat before she melted into shadow, swallowed by the city below.
[Rowan's POV]
The fire roared across the camp, its flames twisting and curling like a mad artist's brushstrokes, painting the night in hues of chaos and ruin.
The scent of burning wood and scorched flesh clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Through the inferno, my gaze locked onto the monster—a specter of death, moving with cruel precision.
He was no longer simply killing. He was toying with them. Torturing them. Each scream, each broken body, only seemed to feed his unholy amusement.
I tore my eyes away, scanning the frantic sea of slum rats scrambling for safety. Then—I saw them. Tobias. Talia. Elias.
A surge of desperation flooded my veins. I had to reach them. I sprinted, my legs burning, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. The fire's glow stretched my shadow out before me, a dark omen against the bloodstained ground.
Fuck, let this mean something.
The thought struck me unbidden, sharp and bitter. Had all of this—all the risk, the fire, the defiance—been for nothing?
Then—a sound. A low, keening swoosh.
The air itself seemed to shift, a violent gale tearing through the chaos. The flames bent and flickered, clawing toward the sky as the wind howled. Something had changed. The storm in my chest stilled for a single breath as I looked up, my pulse hammering with a new, urgent question.
Has someone finally come?
A shadow loomed above the chaos, suspended in the air as if gravity itself dared not touch her. The flames flickered wildly, their glow casting shifting shapes across her figure. Though shrouded in darkness, I could tell—it was a woman.
Then, a voice. Cold, sharp, and edged with something far deadlier than steel.
"What the fuck is this?"
The words cut through the night like a blade through flesh, devoid of fear, laced instead with quiet, simmering disdain. The air itself seemed to still as she turned, her gaze settling upon the man who had orchestrated this massacre.
Father Gideon.
"What is the meaning of this?"
she asked, her tone cooler than winter's breath, more chilling than the carnage unfolding beneath her. A chuckle rippled through the smoke-laden air—low, amused, utterly unfazed.
"Ah… finally, someone joins in on the fun."
Gideon's laughter slithered through the smoke-filled air, dark and twisted, feeding off the destruction around him. His gaze locked onto the figure in the sky, and without waiting for a reply, he struck.
From the battlefield's blood-soaked earth, something twisted and unnatural surged forth. A lance, forged from crimson itself, congealed in his outstretched palm. The air crackled with malevolent energy as the weapon solidified, sharpened to a lethal point.
Then, like a viper loosed from its coil—he hurled it.
The blood-lance tore through the air with blinding speed, its shape twisting unnaturally as if it were alive, drawn to its prey with an unholy hunger. I barely had time to register its movement before—A single gesture.
The woman didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate.
With a flick of her wrist, the very winds obeyed.
A howling gale erupted around her, converging with terrifying force. The air twisted and condensed, taking shape—a blade of wind, massive, towering, a force of nature made manifest. Its edges shimmered like glass, yet I had no doubt—it could cut through steel like paper.
She swung, and in an instant—
The world split apart.
The two attacks collided in the night sky with a force that seemed to rip the world apart. A sound, unearthly and shrill, like metal screaming in agony, filled the world. The very ground beneath me shuddered, and a violent shockwave tore through the battlefield, nearly sending me sprawling.
I barely caught myself, my breath ragged, my limbs trembling from the sheer force of it. Gritting my teeth, I forced my gaze toward my companions—they fared even worse.
Tobias, who had been cradling Elias, had lost his balance entirely, crashing to the ground with a grunt of pain. Beside him, Talia—her body never as strong as ours—had been completely flattened by the impact, coughing as she struggled to rise.
We couldn't stay here.
I shook off the lingering shock and forced my voice to cut through the ringing in my ears. "We need to move— NOW!" My words came sharp, commanding, meant to pull them out of their daze.
For a heartbeat, they hesitated, eyes still locked on the chaos unfolding above. But then—understanding. They nodded, pushing themselves up despite the pain.
Wasting no time, I reached for Elias, lifting him from Tobias's arms before breaking into a full sprint. My lungs burned, my legs ached, but none of it mattered.
The only thing that mattered was the entrance—the single sliver of salvation in this burning nightmare.
And we had to reach it before it was too late.
We ran. Faster than we ever had. Our breaths were ragged, our limbs screaming for respite, but there was no stopping—not now, not while death itself howled behind us.
Against my better judgment, I risked a glance over my shoulder.
What I saw would haunt me forever.
Above the burning ruins of the camp, blood and wind had become one, twisting and writhing together in a violent, otherworldly dance. The crimson tendrils lashed through the storm, slicing through the air like living serpents, only to be repelled by blades of pure wind so sharp they seemed to shred reality itself. The two elements wove together in a nightmarish ballet, colliding with terrifying force, turning the sky into a battlefield fit for gods.
And we? We were nothing but insects, scurrying beneath their feet, praying we wouldn't be crushed.
The thought barely had time to settle before a blur of motion tore through the battlefield.
A body—no, a projectile.
Something—someone—was hurled through the air at impossible speeds, crashing through shacks like they were mere sheets of parchment. Wood and debris exploded outward, scattering embers into the wind. My breath hitched.
Father Gideon.
He had been thrown.
I didn't know whether to feel relief or terror. The sheer force of the impact meant the woman was stronger. But was it enough?
Gods, let it be enough.
We pressed on, the fires of the camp behind us, the gates of the unknown ahead.
And still, the battle raged on.
The night trembled.
Sonic booms cracked through the air, each one rattling my bones as the storm of blood and wind clashed behind us. The very sky felt like it was being torn apart, a battlefield where forces beyond human comprehension waged war. We ran through it all, ghosts against a hurricane, hoping—praying—that we wouldn't be swallowed whole.
Then, through the smoke and chaos, I saw it—our salvation.
A break in the camp's walls, barely wide enough to slip through, yet it may as well have been a golden gate.
Not long ago, I had dreaded this place, cursed these towering barriers that kept us penned in like cattle beneath the Watchers' ever-present gaze. But now?
Now, I longed for that simpler fear.
For the old days, when our greatest enemy had been the silent, suffocating oppression of this wretched camp—not the gods of death waging war above us.
A few more agonizing strides—then impact.
We stumbled, barely keeping our footing as we crossed the threshold, our bodies battered and breathless, but alive.
The camp was behind us.
And just like that, we were back—back in the Slum.