The forest floor, sodden from relentless rain, oozed beneath each step, releasing that distinctive scent of wet earth and decaying vegetation. The air was thick, saturated with a chill mist that glided among the trees like spectral fingers, silencing even the faintest whisper, as if the forest itself held its breath in the aftermath of the carnage.
From within the shadows, a man emerged. Staggering. Gasping. His broad, imposing frame, sculpted by years of battle and suffering, faltered with each step. One large, powerful hand, veined with dark pulses of sinister energy, pressed against his bloodied side. Thick droplets fell to the ground, leaving a trail of blackened blood behind. His feet crushed the fallen leaves, producing a wet, irregular sound.
Daemon.
Even in this moment of weakness, he exuded an ominous aura. His dark hair, plastered to his face by sweat and blood, revealed eyes that glowed with an incandescent red, smoldering with barely restrained fury. Though drawn tight with pain, his features remained harsh, chiseled by combat and hatred.
"Damn bearded bastard…" he growled through gritted teeth. His voice, rough and ragged, resonated in the air like the distant rumble of a thunderstorm. "You will pay, Ambrosius…"
Behind him, what remained of his horde dragged themselves forward, grotesque and broken figures. Creatures with corrupted flesh, bones protruding, glassy eyes… all bore the marks of battle. Torn claws, mutilated limbs, chests pierced by residual light. One of them, an Altered, stumbled, letting out a pathetic gurgle before collapsing. Daemon didn't spare it a glance. Those who could no longer move were just dead weight. The path of survival allowed neither the weak nor the stragglers.
A bitter laugh escaped his cracked lips. He still wasn't strong enough.
The old man… that damned druid and his powers. Daemon had underestimated the strength of an Exalted. Or perhaps this one was simply exceptional. The way Ambrosius had summoned that spear of pure light...
The scene still haunted him.
One moment, his Hollowborn, the massive beast, the living incarnation of Umbra, had been poised to devour everything. The next, it had been struck down, pierced by a radiance so pure, so scorching, that Daemon could still feel its bite deep within his flesh.
His fingers tightened around his wound. The pain was sharp, throbbing. It radiated through his broken ribs, making every breath a torment. But that agony was nothing compared to the burning humiliation of his wounded pride.
They had held. The defenders of the Academy, the vermin he had thought scattered by his surprise assault, had fought back with disconcerting tenacity. And that old fool… that damned Ambrosius.
His wrinkled face, eyes shining with tranquil certainty… as if he understood Daemon and wished to grant him eternal rest out of mercy.
Daemon's rage grew louder, simmering in his chest like a rising storm.
He stopped, pressing his shoulder against the gnarled trunk of a tree, dark veins pulsing beneath his skin with an unhealthy glow. Thoughts raced through his mind.
'I should have cut him down. That old man...'
He didn't deserve to defy me like that. But Daemon knew it was a lie. The truth? He had failed. And failing against Ambrosius meant offering himself to the ridicule of defeat.
He lifted his gaze to the sky. The clouds had dispersed, revealing the Mother Moon.
His anger subsided.
The battle was over. The assault had failed.
A gentle wind arose, stirring leaves to dance around him. The scent of blood, iron, and damp earth mingled in the air. Daemon closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. His heart was still beating. For now, that was all that mattered.
He pushed himself upright, groaning with the effort.
"You've won this round, druid… but next time..." he murmured, a predatory smile twisting his features. "Next time, old druid... I'll sink my claws into your precious light... and snuff it out."
Then, without a backward glance, he vanished into the forest. Each step resonated with a promise, not one of redemption, but of vengeance.
_ _ _
The wind slipped gently through the tall windows of the hall, stirring the heavy velvet curtains that framed the vast chamber. The dim light of hanging lanterns cast flickering shadows on the walls, like dancing silhouettes, silent witnesses to the Academy's secrets.
Cassandre stood straight behind her dark wooden desk, arms crossed beneath the cape of a High Ardent. Her outfit, immaculate as always, stood in sharp contrast to the exhaustion visible on her face.
Her piercing green eyes, laced with gold, were fixed on Astraéa, or rather, beyond her. Her gaze seemed to drift across the room, lost in thoughts far removed from the explanations and excuses tumbling from the young girl's lips.
And yet, Astraéa's voice rang out with a mix of embarrassment and defiance.
"...and he drew this massive sword, bigger than me! I really thought I was done for, but then he just... walked away! Like none of it mattered!"
Cassandre was no longer listening. Her mind wandered, caught on the words that had gripped her earlier: A man with a massive sword.
'Why was he here? Is he working for Daemon? No. That's absurd.'
That man hated Daemon as much as she did... maybe even more. Astraéa had seen it clearly: he'd carved through Daemon's horde with an efficiency that defied logic. So, was he hunting that wretched Umbra-corrupted fool? Or was it mere coincidence?
But if it wasn't… If he came to the Academy on purpose, what is he really after?
A shadow passed over her expression. That question lingered, more than any other, it demanded an answer.
"And then he left too!" Astraéa huffed, arms crossed, visibly miffed that her epic tale was being so thoroughly ignored, even if she was here to receive punishment for her disobedience.
Silence stretched. Heavy. The girl raised an eyebrow and fidgeted.
"Cassandre!" she snapped. "Are you even listening to me?"
The impatience in Astraéa's voice jolted Cassandre back to the present. A blink scattered her thoughts. She focused on her student, the girl she saw as a little sister.
Worry edged out the confusion in her gaze.
"You were insanely lucky, Astraéa! It's a miracle nothing happened to you!" she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. With a swift motion, she snatched a quill from her desk and scribbled hastily on a scroll. "I'll report that student's disappearance... You're dismissed."
But Astraéa didn't move. Arms still crossed. Eyes unwavering. Cassandre slowly looked up, frowning.
"That's it?" the girl asked.
"What?" Cassandre replied, thrown off.
"That's it?" Astraéa repeated with a smirk. "No exemplary punishment? No endless lecture on my 'reckless actions' and the 'importance of following orders'?"
Cassandre sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose, already feeling the familiar headache that Astraéa triggered with baffling regularity.
"Oh... of course." She pointed the quill at the girl as if it carried the weight of judgment. "Two days beneath the Dome. Strict meditation. No leaving. And no Nyx to distract you."
Astraéa raised a brow, weighing the sentence, arms tightening over her chest.
"You're not yourself... It's about the guy with the big sword, isn't it?"
Cassandre shot her a glare that could slice.
"Out. Now."
"Understood, boss." Astraéa turned on her heel. Just before she stepped through the door, she glanced back with a mischievous glint in her eye.
"I'm telling Grandpa everything!"
The door shut with a sharp clack.
Cassandre stood there a while longer, eyes fixed on the carved wood. A deep breath lifted her shoulders.
'That girl…' she thought. But the ghost of a smile faded quickly, chased away by the image Astraéa had described. A towering blade. A silent aura of threat. A path that crossed with Daemon's… and the Academy's, by chance or by choice.
'No. It's not a coincidence. These things never are.'