The Dawnbreakers Regroup
Across the battered ruins of the fractured station,
fate finally stitched the crew back together.
Zaraya's group — bruised, bloodied, but unbowed —
burst through a collapsing corridor, cosmic fists clearing debris.
Kaelen's group — steadied by grim resolve —
cut their way free of Rift-phantoms and flickering Guardians.
The moment they saw each other,
relief crashed through the tension like thunder.
Plo sprinted forward and tackled Aerin in a hug so fierce it knocked both over.
Drex barked, teleporting happily around them all.
Jaxen leaned on Zaraya with a tired smirk.
Kaelen met Zaraya's gaze across the rubble.
Silent understanding passed between them:
Family reunited.
Not broken.
Not beaten.
Not yet.
Brief Respite, Bitter Truths
Inside a small collapsed archive room,
the Dawnbreakers huddled, breathing, planning.
Plo pieced together the fractured holographic map she had glimpsed during the Rift battle —
lines connecting dozens of ancient gates across the galaxy.
At the center of the map:
a symbol —
the same spiraling Axis tied to the Prime Echo and the Cipher.
"The Cult… they're hunting these gates," Plo said, voice tight.
"They want to awaken the Axis… reshape everything."
"And Jaxen's cipher…" Zaraya added slowly, "is one of the keys."
Jaxen groaned.
"Yeah. Figures. Always knew my luck sucked."
They laughed — briefly, bitterly.
But the fire in their hearts burned hotter than ever.
The Cult's Strike
The laughter died instantly when the alarms blared again.
Plo's scanners flashed warning signals:
"Cult vessels inbound!"
The Black Circuit's surviving mercenaries were fleeing in panic.
The true horror had arrived.
From the Rift's bleeding heart,
a Cult strike force emerged:
Warped ships twisted by dark fracture energy.
Soldiers wrapped in armor that shimmered like rotting stars.
Wielding weapons humming with multiversal corruption.
And at the front —
A woman in black and silver armor,
Long frost-white hair.
Cold amethyst eyes.
A scar carved across her right cheek.
She radiated sheer, brutal command.
Iselyra's blood froze.
Her breath caught.
"No…" she whispered.
Aerin looked sharply at her.
"Who—"
Iselyra staggered forward — hand trembling, blade half-raised —
voice raw:
"That's impossible."
"That's my sister."
The Cult commander —
Vyreth Lysenne —
general of the Fracture Legions.
And once, long ago,
heir to the Frostborne Court.
Iselyra's Collapse
The revelation hit like a blow.
Iselyra — stoic, unshakable, cold —
staggered.
Her sword clattered to the ground.
Zaraya caught her before she fell.
"Easy," Zaraya said, voice low. "You're not alone."
Kaelen stepped up beside them, silent and solid as a mountain.
Aerin squeezed Iselyra's arm gently.
Even Plo — wide-eyed with shock — shuffled closer, offering silent support.
The Cult's twisted soldiers assembled beyond the broken gates.
Vyreth raised her blade —
wreathed in frost and Rift-light.
She pointed directly at the Dawnbreakers.
"Seize them.
Take the Cipher.
Kill the rest."
No mercy.
No hesitation.
Family… turned enemy.
Final Battle Preparations
Zaraya turned toward her crew —
the Dawnbreakers —
their faces grim but unbroken.
"We hold."
"We fight."
"We bring her back — or we break their gods doing it."
Kaelen unsheathed his sword — shadows flickering around him.
Iselyra picked up Frostbrand again — her hands steady now, her face like carved ice.
Plo and Aerin chanted protective spells, weaving shields and traps into the shattered walls.
Jaxen drew his twin blasters, grinning savagely.
Drex teleported restlessly at Zaraya's side, ready to pounce.
The Cult advanced.
The Dawnbreakers stood together.
A storm was coming.
And they would meet it with fire.