As Achilles climbed the stairs leading to the hangars, he thought, "Am I doing the right thing? What's right or wrong? I have an obligation to this kingdom—its well-being is my well-being. But what about my son?"
Achilles knew what he had to do the moment he ordered Apollo to leave for the capital. The journey would be long, and he was losing his most powerful general before the coming battle. But the choice had been made when he handed the scroll to Apollo.
The group of four reached the platform. Achilles looked around and sighed. The place was a mess, ravaged by constant bombardment from the enemy's siege engines. Only three drag'hangars were operational; the other seven were destroyed, or their wyverns were dead.
"Apollo, make haste to the capital and do what must be done," Achilles said, a somber look in his eyes.
"Sure, my lord. If you don't mind me asking—why have you summoned these two Hunters now? They are the elite of the elite, and we can't spare even one. Is there a different mission you've thought of? And does the War Council know about it?" Apollo asked, masking the confusion on his face.
"Don't worry, Apollo. I've asked them for reports from the frontlines—nothing more," Achilles replied sternly.
'This fool is hiding something from me. Did he discover about—' Apollo thought, hiding a smile. "I'll be departing then, my lord." He saluted and left for his personal wyvern, his attendants following behind.
Soon, the screech of Apollo's wyvern echoed through the valley—a massive, black-scaled beast with wings wide enough to blot out the sun. Achilles watched as the wyvern took flight, spiraling upward before disappearing into the darkening clouds. The wind from its wings tugged at his cloak, but his mind was elsewhere.
He turned his gaze to the two figures standing silently behind him—the Hunters.
They were imposing, clad in black armor trimmed with silver, their faces obscured by helms carved with ancient sigils resembling a fearsome wolf. One bore a massive curved blade strapped to his back; the other carried a spear that hummed faintly with radiance. Their presence made even battle-hardened soldiers uneasy.
"You're certain you weren't followed?" Achilles asked, his voice low as he looked out at the horizon—dark clouds, distant fires from ruined cities, and the faint sound of enemy war drums.
The Hunter with the spear nodded. "We took the eastern pass and cloaked our trail. No one from the Council will know we're here—unless you tell them yourself. Or Apollo."
"Good," Achilles said, leading them toward a dark room beneath the hangar. "Because what I'm about to ask of you could be considered treason—and cost you your lives."
They looked at each other and answered resolutely, "For sure, my lord. Anything."
They descended through a narrow stairwell, lit only by flickering torches. The air smelled of old stone and burnt oil, remnants of the last bombing. They entered a chamber—a small room lined with maps, weapons, and communication crystals, triangular in shape, arranged atop a wooden platform. Achilles turned sharply.
"I need you to save my son and wife."
The two Hunters exchanged glances but said nothing.
"I know what you're thinking," Achilles continued, his voice tightening. "This isn't the time. We're on the brink of annihilation, and I'm diverting resources to something deemed impossible."
The Hunter with the curved blade finally spoke. "We were told both of them died during the Siege of Haleth."
"That's what I wanted everyone to believe," Achilles said, placing a weathered map on the table. "They were taken. By them."
Silence fell, so deep it felt like even the stones held their breath.
"You mean… the Exiled?" the spear-wielding Hunter asked.
Achilles nodded. "I received a message—a scrap of parchment hidden in a supply shipment. It mentioned something about the 'Black Spirals in the Mist Realm.' And you know what's in the Mist Realm, don't you?"
Both Hunters stiffened.
"You know what that means?" Achilles asked.
"Yes," the one with the blade said grimly. "It's a place. A fortress buried in the Shattered Spires. The vilest of places. Forbidden, even among the Exiled. A breeding ground for something darker than rebellion. If your son and lady is there…"
"I don't care how dangerous it is," Achilles cut in. "Find them. Bring them back if you can. Or end their suffering, if you must."
The spear-wielder bowed. "We'll need a guide—someone who knows the old routes and is crazy enough to go to that god forsaken realm."
"There's a monk in the ruins of Dagorath Valley," Achilles said. "Name's Damos. He served with my father in the old wars, back when I was just a newborn from the outskirts. Trust him. He'll know the way."
"We leave tonight," the blade-wielder said. "But if we fail… you must not come for us."
Achilles nodded, eyes heavy. "If you fail, we'll all be dead soon anyway."
——
The Hunters vanished into the evening mist, swift and silent like the predators they were named after. Achilles stood alone in the war room, staring at the parchment he hadn't shown them—the full message, written in his wife's hand:
> Beloved, I am still alive. But not for long.
They're turning him, our baby, Into something else.
Something that won't remember you. They said....
They say he'll be their new god.
Burn the Spiral.
If you love us, destroy our bodies.
——
Achilles crushed the note in his gauntleted hand, his eyes burning with rage.