The air inside the Strategic Conclave Chamber grew thick—dense with tension, sweat, and fear barely contained beneath stone-faced control. The map of Varkath burned bright with crimson pulses, each flare marking another town gone silent. Outside, the chaos swelled like a living thing.
Screams echoed through Dravengarde's upper wards. Distant detonations rumbled the fortress walls. The emergency wards were overwhelmed. Frenzied mutants—once farmers, poets, teachers—now tore through alleyways like rabid beasts. It wouldn't be long before even the Deepvaults weren't safe. And inside, the council's restraint unraveled.
"We are running out of time!" Thane roared, smashing the hilt of his sword into the war table. "Every second we debate, another block burns! Another family dies!"
"Do you think I don't know that?!" Virellia snapped, rising to her feet. Her shadow stretched unnaturally long behind her, a side effect of her mutation. "But if Edenia hears even whispers of this before we control the narrative, we're finished! King Ivan won't hesitate. The CPG will descend on us like a reaping storm!"
"The Councils will use this to tighten their grip," Arodan added, voice cold. "They already think Varkath is a powder keg. This gives them the perfect excuse to erase it. We'll lose autonomy. Our people will be branded unstable. Dangerous. And Heca Province?" He shook his head. "They've been itching to cut ties since the Sanctum Accords. They'll sever us completely. Wipe the isle from their maps and move on."
Thane growled, "So what then? We wait while our home turns to ash?"
"We cannot save everything," Virellia said, quieter now. "But we can save our future. If we act precisely."
Silence fell for a breath. Then Dren stepped forward, his voice low and measured, but heavy with fire. "We must do both. Cover the incident—and neutralize the infected zones. No mercy. No mistakes. We create the illusion of control… even if we must burn our own streets to do it."
He turned to Skell. "Prepare the illusion. Simulate tectonic tremors. Cut every line to Edenia except mine."
"To what end?" Virellia asked.
"I'll speak to King Ivan directly if I must. Tell him a storm is brewing. Once we've already contained. If he senses we've lost control, the CPG will be here within hours. I won't let their boots touch this soil."
Thane nodded slowly. "Then we need bodies. Soldiers. Drones. Alchemists. Anyone who can fight."
"They'll die," Virellia warned.
"They're dying anyway."
Without wasting another breath, Dren Havoc activated the war table's command interface. The crimson glow sharpened into tactical overlays, hundreds of markers dancing like fireflies over Varkath's unraveling geography.
"This is it," Dren growled. "We execute. Now."
Thane was already barking orders through his comm-link. "Deploy Warden Brigades Alpha through Delta to the Wyrmskull district. Don't wait for backup—if it moves and it's not tagged as bunker-cleared, drop it. Confirm kill. Gas rounds first. Blades if they get close."
From deep within the fortress armory, massive elevators opened with a hiss, revealing the Black Wardens—mutant-hardened shock troops clad in obsidian exo-armor. Their eyes glowed through slit helms, muscles taut with combat enhancements. Grenade belts clinked at their sides. Arc-rifles crackled to life. Without a word, they stormed into drop-pods bound for the burning ports and towns beyond.
"Command Override Theta-Seven confirmed," one of the Warden Commanders barked as the doors slammed shut. "We're going dark."
Virellia stood at a separate console, sweeping her hands across a magical interface infused with psionic energy. "Initiating civilian protocol. All non-frenzied mutants within classified threshold zones are to be herded into the Hollowdeep Bunkers."
Throughout the island, hidden entrances opened in plain cobbled streets—stone spiraling aside, hiding advanced tunnel systems like arteries beneath a dying beast. Sirens wailed as evacuation drones herded panicked civilians toward them. Mutant children screamed as shadows crashed through alleyways, parents dragging them toward the bunkers. Some didn't make it—snatched away mid-sprint by shrieking, frenzied kin.
"Seal each door once capacity is met. No exceptions," Virellia snapped. "If they're late, they're lost."
The bunker doors slammed shut one by one, muffling the horror behind feet-thick alloy.
Archivist Skell moved through shadows like a ghost. Already he'd slipped from the war chamber, descending into the Chorus Vault, where shimmering memory-weaves flowed like rivers across a dark chamber. His hands danced through datafeeds, patching broadcasts, rewriting footage, and masking energy surges. In a matter of minutes, he painted a new reality—one Edenia might believe.
He linked directly to Dren. "Seismic illusions ready. Arcane tremors scheduled for detonation every two hours. Atmospheric readings will mask the psychic emissions."
Dren answered with a clipped nod. "Good. Make it look like Varkath is breaking apart. Let them think it's a death sentence to get close."
Then, Dren himself walked to the platform's edge. His cloak snapped in the wind as he addressed the Islewide Defense Nexus. "This is Dren Havoc. You are the sword. You are the wall. There is no heaven coming for us—only flame. If you die, you die for Varkath. If you live, you earn the right to call this place your home again. No more waiting. We take it back, inch by cursed inch."
From above, drop-ships broke through the clouds, flares burning from their undercarriage like war angels descending into a pit. But below, the tide was rising.
Frenzied mutants had already reached the Templar District, where towering stone buildings collapsed in the weight of brute strength and psionic meltdowns. One mutant—a former stonemason, now a titan-skinned berserker—swung broken beams like blades, cleaving through stone and blood alike. Electric shocks, chemical bombs, tranquilizers—nothing stopped him.
The Black Wardens arrived in a burst of smoke and gunfire. Arc-rifles screamed as plasma surged down twisted alleys. Mutants howled. Flesh burned. But the frenzy did not falter. They climbed over their dead like beasts, teeth bared, minds shattered. Above all of it, the NeuroSpire Tower pulsed faintly on the horizon again.
Thane's voice barked through static. "We're holding the south. Barely. Casualties are climbing. If this doesn't work, we won't have an isle left to save."
The Black Wardens stationed there sent one final transmission—static-riddled screams, gunfire, and the gurgled rasp of someone choking on their own blood. Then silence. Their vitals flatlined on Skell's interface, blinking red until he shut them off, jaw clenched tight.
In Hollowdeep Bunker Delta, three mutants previously deemed unaffected began seizing violently—blood pouring from their eyes as mutosterone levels skyrocketed. Virellia screamed into the relay, "Seal the Delta vault! Do it now!"
"But there are children—!"
"Seal it!"
A thunderous clang silenced the protest. Moments later, the muffled pounding began. Not from the outside—but within.
And then the Hallowed Cradle District—once home to artisan mutants, poets, and healers—burst into flames. An unregistered Class-Five mutation was confirmed: a teenage boy with cracked porcelain skin, exhaling napalm from his lungs. He danced between rooftops, turning entire streets into rivers of fire, laughing through blistered lips. Drones swarmed him with suppressant foam, but it ignited on contact. His name was Elian. His school records showed top marks. No behavioral red flags. And now he was fire incarnate.
Elsewhere, a psychic mutant in the Azure Maw collapsed a dockyard with a single scream. The resulting shockwave turned dockhands into puddles of flesh. Another mutant—massive, scaled, and impervious to small-arms fire—ripped through the Warden's armored walkers like paper. Thane himself had to engage it directly, wielding a plasma-forged warblade, carving through flesh and bone just to slow it down. He didn't win. He survived. Barely.
"Casualty count's past a thousand, Dren!" he shouted through his blood-slick comm, "And half the damned bodies are ours!"
Arodan slammed his fist into the table. "This isn't frenzy. It's not madness. This is war."
"Look at the patterns," Virellia said. "They're not just lashing out. They're avoiding key targets. Ignoring places with stronger defense fields. Choosing when and where to strike."
A long silence. Then Dren's voice dropped even lower. "This isn't chaos. It's a test."
Suddenly, the NeuroSpire flared again—pulsing deep violet. A tremor rolled through Dravengarde, knocking scrolls, weapons, and hope to the floor. An ominous hum pierced the air, ringing through every metal surface. Then came the scream. Not physical. Not auditory. Psychic. Every mutant on the isle heard it. Some wept. Some fell. Some… changed.
All across Varkath, their spines arched. Their minds cracked. Dozens more went feral. Dozens more turned into nightmares.
The wind now howled across the Bridge of Thorns—a narrow, steel-laced viaduct carved into the jagged sea cliffs of Varkath's eastern edge. It had stood for centuries, connecting the chaotic sprawl of Varkath Isle to its verdant sister isle, Melathra, named after the rare and sacred melati flower. Unlike its cursed twin, Melathra was a peaceful expanse of fertile valleys, sacred groves, and quiet towns under soft sunlight. But now, that peace was rupturing.
A horde of mutants—some bloodied, others frothing with madness—rushed the bridge in waves, their eyes ablaze with frenzy. The force field shimmered, resisting them with every pulse, but the sheer weight of bodies—dozens, then hundreds—hammered it again and again like a living battering ram.
One mutant with obsidian skin and blades jutting from his forearms screamed and plunged into the field. Sparks erupted. He should have disintegrated. But he didn't.
He survived the field for seven full seconds—long enough to stagger through before collapsing, still twitching. Others saw it. And began hurling themselves into the barrier in mad desperation.
The residents of Arahani, Melathra's closest coastal town, stood frozen along the lookout cliffs, watching the impossible unfold. Families. Farmers. Traders. Fathers held their children tighter. Mothers whispered prayers to gods that hadn't answered in generations.
Arahani's constable dropped his scope, hand trembling. "Get word to the temple... and the relay tower," he told a nearby guard. "They'll want to know."
"Sir?" the guard asked hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do we... do we call Edenia?"
The air inside the Arahani Watch Hall was thick—soaked with sweat, smoke from burning incense, and the murmurs of divided voices.
They stood in a circle; the town's Elders, the Temple Wardens, the Harbor Sentinels, even the orchard guild leaders—every soul who held sway in Melathra's heart.
On the center table, the relay crystal glowed faintly, its signal locked, waiting for the final word. One word, and it would pierce the Edenian Skygrid and summon the Capitol Patrol Guard. But at what cost?
"If we don't report this now," said Warden Haskel, voice coarse, "and that barrier falls—we'll be the next Varkath."
"And if we do," countered High Matron Sayali, "what happens to the rest of them? The CPG won't ask questions. They'll sterilize the entire isle. Innocents too."
"They're mutants," a younger voice spat from the edge. "They'll all be seen as threats."
Silence. That word always held weight. Mutants. No matter how many treaties. No matter how many peaceful enclaves like Arahani welcomed both bloodlines. The old rift remained.
Across the sea, through parted stormclouds, the Bridge of Thorns glowed a faint blue—shuddering under the strain. The mutants clawed and pushed, some even climbing over the dead, madness in their veins, freedom the only word left in their minds.
Sayali turned toward the altar. The melati petals scattered there, pure white, began to wither at the edges from the pressure in the air. She dropped to her knees. And others followed. Silent prayers filled the room.
But at the Watch Hall's edge, the communications officer stood frozen, hand hovering over the crystal. Eyes locked to the shimmer of the portal relay screen.
Back on Varkath, a distant whirring noise grew louder over the burning skies. Then came the voice. Cold. Mechanized. Final.
"Attention Varkath residents. This is Capitol Patrol Guard Command. Sentinel Units en route. Evacuate high-value mutants to designated vaults. All unauthorized mutant activity will be met with lethal force."
Above the charred docks of Dravengarde, massive shapes descended from the sky—cloaked in midnight armor and humming with containment pylons.