Gaël was at his limit.
Every second stretched like an overwound cord, on the verge of snapping. The wait was a blade buried under his ribs, twisting with each heartbeat. Gathered beneath the vast dome of the atrium, the students formed a restless crowd, swaying between hushed whispers and anxious glances. Tension hung in the air, thick as the storm rumbling outside.
The main gate had been locked and reinforced with metal bars, groaning under the pressure of the wind. The tall arched windows let through the pale light of a sky torn by black clouds. Rain pelted down in heavy sheets, rattling like thousands of invisible arrows. And yet… they saw nothing of what was happening beyond. Nothing but a sea of gray.
Leaning against one of the pillars, Gaël clenched his fists. Doing nothing. Just waiting. The thought devoured him. Every fiber of his being screamed to move, to understand, to act. But the orders had been clear. Stay under the dome.
He gritted his teeth, the metallic taste of frustration filling his mouth. Useless. Again.
Then, without warning, a shadow burst from the crowd.
Fast. Silent. A mass of fur slid across the floor and sprang toward the dome, scaling a pillar with unnatural agility. Gaël blinked.
"What the…?"
The shadow tensed, muscles coiled… then leapt. A black comet sliced through the space, defying gravity. The creature vanished through the dome's open arch, merging with the rain's cascade, disappearing in a burst of water.
"Nyx! Come back!"
Astraéa's voice shattered the stunned silence.
All eyes turned to her. Her face was twisted with worry.
"What was… what was that?" someone murmured in the crowd.
"An animal? Some Umbra aberration? Here, in the sanctuary…?" said another, voice wavering.
Before panic could spread, Cassandre Délviane, until then silent, raised her hand in a sharp gesture. Her voice cracked through the air like a whip:
"Silence! Astraéa, let it go!"
But Astraéa shook her head, defiant.
"No. I have to follow him." Her voice was steady, thrumming with unwavering resolve.
At her feet, another shadow stirred. A white ball of fur, its eyes glowing like twin moons, darted from beneath her cloak.
The creature growled, lifting its head toward its mistress. Astraéa knelt, placing her palm gently against its forehead, eyes closing as if to share a silent message.
"Eos… let's go."
What happened next left the entire room speechless.
The small creature shuddered, muscles rippling beneath its fur. The pristine white bristled, then pulsed with a soft light. A series of bone-cracks echoed through the chamber. It began to grow. Fast. Unnaturally fast. In seconds, the little beast became as large as a full-grown wolf, its claws scraping against the stone floor, eyes burning with fierce light.
Without a second's hesitation, Astraéa leapt onto Eos's back.
The creature lifted her head, cast a glance toward the gap in the dome… and with a powerful surge, launched herself upward. Her paws dug into the stone floor, propelling her body toward the roof.
The jump was nothing short of spectacular.
The pair sliced through the air, passing through the opening in a burst of rain and light. The downpour formed an inverted waterfall they ascended, Astraéa's silhouette briefly framed against the lamplight… then gone.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd.
"She's lost her mind!" Cassandre cursed, her eyes flashing with fury to rival the storm above. She spun on her heel, ripped the metal bars away and unlocked the door with a sharp gesture, slamming it open against the wall.
"No one leaves this room!" she shouted. "I'll bring that reckless girl back myself."
And with that, she vanished into the rain.
Gaël.
His legs had already moved before his mind could catch up. The pull was too strong. Maybe it was fear, fear of being left behind. Or maybe… maybe it was just him.
"Gaël, no! Come back!" Kaëlan shouted as he saw him bolt.
But it was too late.
Gaël tore through the crowd. Hands reached to stop him. Hector stepped forward, ready to tackle...
Gaël spun, ducked into a roll, his boots skidding against the stone. He came up running, breath short but purpose burning clear in his eyes.
The academy's corridors opened before him.
Dark. Deserted.
Only the echo of his footsteps filled the air, rapid and solitary between the stone arches. The scent of damp air, old wood, and spent candles clung to the walls. Water dripped from the ceiling in places, rain seeping through ancient cracks.
Breathe. Run.
His muscles screamed, but his heart roared louder.
At every turn, voices called out, trying to make him stop. At every corridor, there was a risk, he could run straight into Professor Délviane.
And still… he ran. Toward her.
The girl with golden eyes stained with shadow.
_ _ _
Atop a small wooded hill overlooking the valley, a man stood still.
His eyes were locked on the horizon, where black clouds drifted lazily above the mountain, heavy with threats… and memories.
He tore a piece of dried meat with his left hand, fingers rough, stained with earth and old scars. The salted flesh cracked between his teeth.
"Funny how fate catches up with you sometimes…" he murmured, voice worn thin by time.
A silence.
Then, as if trying to convince himself, he muttered again, softer this time:
"…Funny."
Before him, the valley stretched under a curtain of thick rain, turning the landscape into a canvas of faded greens and shifting greys. The trees, bent beneath the weight of the water, groaned in the gusts. Visibility was poor, shapes melting into the moving shadows of the storm… but he didn't need to see.
He could feel it.
The stench of the horde.
That acrid reek, part rotted shadow, part decaying flesh, hung in the air like a promise of slaughter. His nostrils twitched. He could almost picture the swarming mass of the Altered crawling up the mountain's flanks, every step a deep thud in the earth. Above, the clouds, darkened by the wrath of something older than men, slowly unraveled, torn into wisps of night by the relentless downpour… but the hatred lingered. Lurking. Relentless.
His jaw clenched.
'Daemon.'
The name pulsed in his skull, a splinter lodged too deep to ignore. How had this hunt brought him here, back to this mountain he had once walked not as a stranger…
But as a man returning home.
Brann's thoughts drifted, shadowed and twisted, much like the Umbra he now let coil freely within him, a black tide swallowing the shores of his mind.
'Daemon.'
A cursed name. A thorn buried in the flesh of the world, and in his own, that needed to be torn out, burned to ash, erased from memory.
But… a well of Umbra like that…
A part of him, the one he tried to smother but that always whispered, wanted it.
It hungered for the power. Wanted to drink the darkness to the last drop, to gorge itself on that forbidden strength. With it, he could settle old scores… and come out stronger. Strong enough to stand against the Luminar Order.
And yet…
His gaze slid, slow and heavy, toward the misty horizon, where the faint silhouette of the Golden Tree Academy barely surfaced through the veil of rain.
A bastion of knowledge. A ghost from his past. A scar that still burned.
"The old man's probably still muttering into that beard of his…" he muttered with a bitter smirk. "Sitting up there in that too-large chair, behind his scrolls… like all those years were just another breath in his long, long life."
The image of Ambrosius crossed his mind. Dark. Majestic. And utterly insufferable.
Then, like a blade slashing through the shadow of his thoughts, another face surged forth.
Cassandre.
His breath caught. His jaw clenched again. He looked away, brows furrowing as if to push back the invading presence. But the pain didn't vanish. It lingered, nestled beneath his ribs, burning, silent.
No. I can't face her. Not now. Maybe never.
And yet…
And yet, the longing roared, crashing against the jagged walls of resentment. A war within, as violent as the one devouring the mountainside.
He winced, letting the Umbra seep into every corner of his being, blanketing his memories in shadow, trying to smother the flames ravaging his heart.
It's over. Long gone. Buried.
He inhaled deeply, lungs filling with air heavy from the rain.
He hadn't come for them. Not for the Academy. Not for her. He wouldn't lift a finger for the Golden Tree. The thought alone drew a dry, bitter laugh from his lips, devoid of warmth, hollow as a broken oath.
But Ambrosius was there.
And that… complicated things.
Getting closer would be dangerous. Too dangerous.
Fear? Maybe. He'd learned not to lie to himself anymore.
The wind howled around him, whipping the twisted branches, sweeping leaves away like the cries of the dead. The rain intensified, hammering the canopy with the fury of an impatient sky.
At last, he exhaled, long and heavy. A sigh drenched in exhaustion, in resignation, in wars he'd never truly finished fighting.
"With a party like this…" he muttered, voice steeped in mockery, "no way I'm just gonna sit here and watch."
In a fluid, almost unconscious motion, his hand slipped behind his back.
Leather groaned softly.
His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. Heavy. Old. Forged to cut, not to shine. A blade without elegance, only raw, brutal purpose.
He drew it.
The metal sang, a low, coarse growl that rang like a warning in the dark. That sound… it was the sound of the world about to be torn. Of flesh. Of truth.
He cast one last look toward the mist-cloaked peaks. His eyes, dulled shards of steel, still glinted with something knotted and raw, desire, hatred… and the faint shimmer of a broken hope.
Daemon wouldn't be within reach today.
But the Altered?
They infested the lower slopes.
Perfect targets to unleash his fury. Perfect offerings to feed the beast inside.
And besides… every creature he felled, every spurt of black blood spilled… would weaken Daemon.
Another debt paid. Another thirst, slightly quenched.
"A little black blood to pass the time…" he growled, before surging forward.
His boots sank into the mud, each step ripping a wet cry from the earth.
The rain lashed his face. The wind tore at him with invisible fangs. But he pressed on. Step by step.
Toward the mountain.
Toward the horde.
Because in the end... This wasn't a mission. It wasn't a crusade.
It was a war of shadows. And war was the only thing he'd ever known how to wage.
He wanted Daemon.
And to reach him, I'll carve through his Umbra-born spawn, one cut at a time.