Days later, after traversing the desolate southern banks of the Vigor, the terrain finally began to show more distinct signs of civilization, or what was left of it. Sections of paved road, cracked and buckled, emerged from beneath the windblown dust. The skeletal remains of small outposts, likely belonging to Starbreach patrols or Terragrove supply depots, appeared more frequently, often marked by signs of recent, hasty abandonment or brutal destruction. The sense of unease deepened with every step.
Then, cresting a long, low ridge, they saw it.
Not the radiant spire piercing the clouds that Seren had described, nor the vibrant glow Flareon remembered. Spread across the vast basin below, lay Starbreach, or its ghost.
Towers that should have blazed with Aetherium light stood dark, many tilted at unnatural angles, others completely collapsed into mountains of twisted metal and shattered crystal. The intricate network of energy conduits that webbed the city, pulsing veins of captured light, were blackened, severed lines. Smoke still drifted lazily from multiple points within the ruins, mingling with the dust stirred by the relentless wind. Even from this distance, the scale of the devastation was breathtaking, horrifying. The Stellar Beacon, the city's heart and symbol, was gone, replaced by a ragged stump of fused metal spewing a thin plume of dark smoke.
Flareon stopped dead, his breath catching in his throat. The spear felt suddenly useless in his hand. Beside him, Seren gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief and horror.
"Ancestors..."
Flareon breathed, the word barely a whisper. The vibrant, humming city he had endured just weeks ago was a corpse.
They descended the ridge in silence, the distant view solidifying into closer, sharper images of ruin. Twisted girders, shattered synth-glass, the charred husks of vehicles. As they approached the outskirts, the sounds began, the murmur of voices, the clang of metal on metal, the occasional cry of pain.
Stepping past the broken remnants of what might have been a defensive perimeter, they entered the city proper. Chaos reigned. Versari, their adaptable features etched with shock and exhaustion, moved with grim purpose through the debris-choked streets. Makeshift shelters constructed from salvaged materials leaned precariously against shattered walls. Field hospitals, identifiable by hastily painted symbols on torn banners, occupied relatively stable sections of collapsed buildings, overflowing with injured tended by weary medics. The air hung thick with the smell of smoke, dust, burnt metal, and antiseptic.
They moved deeper into the devastation, unnoticed amidst the frantic activity. Flareon's eyes scanned the faces, the wreckage, his mind struggling to reconcile the vibrant memories with the grim reality. Seren walked beside him, her Farseer eyes absorbing the scene, cataloging the damage, the sheer scale of the disaster settling heavily upon her.
Then, near a larger field hospital set up in the shadow of a partially collapsed transit hub, Flareon stopped. His gaze fixed on a figure kneeling beside a row of injured laid out on stretchers. She wore practical, stained clothing, but her movements were fluid, precise. Water flowed from her cupped hands, cleansing wounds with gentle, controlled streams, easing fevers with cool compresses formed directly on brows. Her eyes, when she glanced up briefly, held the distinct, concentric-ringed pupils of a Water Sorcerai.
A jolt went through Flareon, seeing one of his own amidst this Versari ruin. He pushed forward, ignoring the startled glances from nearby Versari medics who were clearly overwhelmed. He stopped a respectful distance away, waiting for her to finish tending to a moaning Versari before speaking, his voice rough but clear.
"Your eyes... Water element?"
He asked, keeping his voice low.
The Sorcerai looked up fully, her expression initially wary, tired. Her eyes widened slightly as she registered Flareon's own distinct Fire Sorcerai pupils, the faint remnants of Citadel style in his torn tunic barely visible beneath the grime and wear of their journey. She slowly rose to her feet, wiping damp hands on her trousers. The shared sign of their heritage created an instant, unspoken connection in the midst of the chaos.
"Yes."
She confirmed, her voice carrying the fatigue of days spent healing.
"And you... Fire."
"Flareon."
He offered his name curtly, the urgency of the situation overriding lengthy introductions.
"Mireia."
She replied.
Now that names were exchanged, the underlying unity of their people surfaced more strongly. Flareon switched fluidly to their shared Sorcerai tongue, the intimacy of the language cutting through the surrounding noise and disaster.
He gestured vaguely at the apocalyptic scene around them.
Seren watched the exchange, understanding only the names and Flareon's initial question. The shift to the flowing Sorcerai language, the immediate change in Flareon's demeanor from wary survivor to urgently concerned kinsman, confused her. The speed with which they seemed to connect felt almost tribal, bypassing the cautious steps usual between strangers.
Mireia surveyed the devastation, her shoulders slumping slightly. Her voice, when she replied in Sorcerai, was heavy with exhaustion and grief.
She shuddered, the memory clearly raw.
She gestured towards the blackened, melted ruins of the Aetherium conduits lining the street.
Her eyes reflected the remembered horror.
Flareon gaze snapped back to Mireia, his own fear rising sharp and urgent.
Mireia's expression tightened further, lines of worry deepening around her eyes. She nodded slowly, confirming his worst fears.
She took a shaky breath.
She gestured towards the ground, implicitly referencing the Citadel's unique structure.
She met Flareon's gaze, a shared understanding passing between them, the painful memory of records lost to Dravokh fire in the Prismatic War, the reason such extreme measures were developed.
Her relief was short-lived, her gaze sweeping over the ruins around them again, the parallel clear in her mind.
Her voice grew heavy.
She looked back at Flareon, her eyes searching his face.
A small measure of hope returned to her voice, though still laced with grief.
She looked down at her hands, stained with the blood and grime of the Starbreach injured.
A commotion near the edge of the makeshift square drew their attention. A sturdy Versari, voice amplified by a salvaged acoustic horn, climbed onto a pile of stable rubble. He wore the simple armband of the newly formed 'Information Dispersal Unit', a desperate attempt to maintain communication lines in the shattered city. Immediately, a crowd began to gather, drawn by the promise of news from beyond Starbreach's ruins.
Flareon watched as mostly Farseers, their faces etched with worry, and a cluster of Morphai, their practical nature seeking situational awareness, pressed closer. A few scattered Versari paused their work, listening intently. Mireia excused herself briefly from her patients, joining the edge of the gathering, her expression anxious.
Seren moved forward instinctively, her limp forgotten for a moment, her gaze fixed on the crier, straining to hear every word. News from Spectrahold... it was the first potential information she might get about her home, her family.
The crier cleared his throat, his voice echoing slightly off the broken facades.
"Updates!"
He began, his tone loud and grim.
"Spectrahold Republic reports structural stress! The disturbance... caused tremors that led to minor collapses within the upper mountain strata!"
Seren's breath hitched. Her heart pounded.
"No confirmed casualties reported!"
The crier continued quickly, anticipating the crowd's fear.
"The deeper archives and residential sectors remain secure! But the mountains groan, people! Caution is advised for any travel near the peaks!"
Seren let out a shaky breath of relief, though the image of her mountain home trembling was deeply unsettling. Safe, for now. But vulnerable.
The crier shifted his weight.
"Terragrove Union sends word of incursions! Minor Dravokh tribes, seizing the chaos! Raiding northern farmsteads and supply lines! The Union militia is engaged, but stretched thin!"
Flareon stiffened, his hand tightening instinctively on his spear shaft. Dravokh. Scavengers picking at the wounds of civilization. His hatred for them rekindled, hot and sharp. Mireia's expression darkened, a shared flicker of Sorcerai resentment passing between them.
"From the Prismatic Citadel!"
The crier announced, looking towards Flareon and Mireia, acknowledging their presence.
"Word is, the Light Core remains secure underground. Surface reconstruction has begun. Earth and Metal Sorcerai are clearing debris, stabilizing essential structures. Progress is slow, cautious. They build knowing the threat... might return."
He lowered the horn, his gaze sweeping over the anxious faces.
"That's all confirmed for now. Stay vigilant. Help each other. Starbreach endures!"
The crowd dispersed slowly, murmuring amongst themselves, digesting the grim news. Seren rejoined Flareon, her face pale but relieved about the lack of casualties in Spectrahold. Flareon's expression was hard, his thoughts clearly on the cowardly Dravokh attacks and the cautious rebuilding of his ravaged home. The news, while offering slivers of hope, Spectrahold holding, the Citadel beginning recovery, painted a picture of a world deeply wounded, facing threats from both monstrous, unknown entities and old, familiar enemies. The fight for survival was far from over; it was expanding.