Smoke drifted like mourning veils across the razed village near Laginaple, curling around the blackened remnants of homes and the lifeless forms scattered in the mud. The stench of burnt timber and scorched blood clung thick to the air, refusing to fade. The once-vibrant chatter of daily life had turned into a ghostly silence. Yet, that silence screamed—a chorus of loss and pain reverberating louder than any cry. What had once stood as a proud outpost on the edge of hope now stood as a battlefield carved by desperation. At its center, two defenders remained—Zera and Tove—shoulders squared, weapons ready, defying the storm.
The wind tugged at Zera's silver cloak, making it dance like a banner of resistance. Her sharp eyes, glowing faintly from her activated crest, remained locked on the treeline just beyond the village's crumbled edge. In her grasp was Clarent—the sword of dragon's blood and ancestral honor—its blade glimmering with restrained fire, hungry for righteous combat. Behind them, villagers huddled behind shattered barricades and crumbled stone, peering out with trembling breath and hope waning by the second. Overhead, stormclouds churned, black and brooding, heralding not just rain but the wrath of the Falzath beasts.
Tove crouched near the outer barricade, her sharp gaze scanning the woods. Her fingers moved with the instinct of years in battle, nocking an arrow as easily as breathing. Her bow, strung from the bones of a fallen drake, vibrated softly in her grip.
"They're circling us," she muttered, narrowing her eyes. "Smart bastards. Testing the defenses. They know we're few."
Zera nodded grimly. "They'll find no cracks to crawl through. Not today."
And then, the forest exploded with movement.
Twisted abominations charged forth—hulking things of sinew and fang, corrupted flesh coated in ash and bile. Some crawled on all fours like wolves, others towered on two legs, wielding bone-forged weapons. Their howls were bloodcurdling, the sound of ancient curses and unspeakable agony. Zera stepped forward without fear. Clarent surged to life, sacred flames racing along the blade's edge. Crimson arcs of energy flared with each swing, cutting down beasts with a grace that defied human limitation.
Tove stood firm, loosing arrow after arrow. Each shot struck home—eyes, throats, hearts. Her bow sang a deadly melody, one only warriors understood. Together, they were not simply defenders. They were myths given form—symbols of rebellion incarnate.
But the tide thickened. The air grew colder. The Falzath swarm, relentless and ever-hungry, doubled in number. Zera's instincts flared.
An elite had arrived.
Clarent's glow deepened, almost in warning.
Then came the roar.
A pillar of fire burst beyond the treeline. Trees split in half like twigs as a monstrous figure entered. Towering and monstrous, it wore armor twisted by corruption, its flesh split by glowing runes that bled black ichor. Spines jutted from its back like twisted wings. Above its head hovered a crimson sigil—a Falzath rune pulsing in mockery of the old gods.
Zera advanced without hesitation. "Hold the line," she murmured to Tove.
Tove gave a firm nod. "Until death. Or longer."
Zera sprinted.
Their clash cracked the heavens.
Clarent slammed against corrupted metal, sparks lighting up the gloom. The monster howled, swinging a massive cleaver ablaze with hellfire. Zera danced between its strikes, countering with blinding speed. One spine severed, a shriek earned. Then, a punishing backhand slammed her into a stone ruin.
She rose slowly. Her lip bled. Her ribs screamed. But she stood. Her crest flared brighter, illuminating the battlefield with the fire of the Dragonheart.
She charged anew.
Faster. Deadlier. Clarent's flames extended into arcs of incandescent wrath, setting the air ablaze. Every impact became a miniature explosion. The battlefield transformed into a living inferno. Tove, relentless, fired volley after volley to keep the lesser beasts at bay.
But then the world seemed to still.
A new presence descended.
From the darkened skies came a woman, wrapped in crimson and black robes that rippled with malevolence. Silver hair shimmered unnaturally. Her eyes glowed with death's promise. She did not walk—she drifted. When she spoke, reality itself shivered.
"Who the hell is that?" Zera demanded, pausing for only a heartbeat.
Tove's voice dropped to a whisper. "Mariam. Queen of Laginaple. Sister of Davis. Tristan's wife."
Once beautiful. Once revered. Now twisted by betrayal and ruin.
With no incantation, she raised a hand.
Reality cracked.
Black chains erupted midair, whips of pure corruption. Zera hacked some down, but they overwhelmed her. One snared her ankle, slamming her into the ground. Another coiled her wrist, ripping Clarent from her hand. The sword clanged against stone with a mournful ring.
Tove reacted instantly, loosing a desperate arrow. Mariam flicked her gaze.
The arrow disintegrated midair.
"Pathetic," Mariam said. "Defending traitors? I expected more."
She raised her palm. A sphere of black flame grew, pulsing with void energy. No rune. No chant. Just intent.
Then came the storm.
A cyclone tore the sky apart.
Descending from above like a divine blade, Laverna landed with ferocity. Her jamadhars glinted. Her tiger eye necklace burned with holy rage. Wind and lightning spiraled around her, clashing with Mariam's dark fire. The attack exploded midair, scattering light across the battlefield.
Laverna crouched beside Zera, eyes gleaming with animal fury.
"Touch her again," she snarled, "and I'll tear out your soul through your spine."
Mariam blinked, mildly amused. "The slave. The fox girl. Still clinging to hope?"
"You lost the right to speak his name," Laverna said. "We trusted you. You burned that trust."
Then, steel met sorcery.
Their battle was a whirlwind. Laverna's jamadhars danced like twin storms, cutting through illusion and spell. Mariam countered with deadly elegance, each gesture releasing waves of destructive power. But Laverna was faster. Her blades, guided by vengeance, cut deeper with every pass. Her necklace glowed brighter with each strike.
Zera, freed, crawled to Clarent. She rose, fury in her breath. Together, she and Laverna pressed the assault.
Strike. Parry. Cut. Flame.
Mariam shrieked in frustration.
And Zera saw it—the real enemy. The mask. The whispering figure. The betrayal not of a queen, but of a soul who surrendered everything.
Zera's voice rang above the storm.
"You were once a beacon. A mother. A protector."
Mariam raised her hand. "I am your god now."
Laverna's crest exploded in light.
"No. You're a corpse with a crown."
Her blades pierced through the veil.
The necklace ignited.
Mariam screamed—and vanished in a burst of radiant energy.
Silence fell.
The Falzath fled.
The villagers emerged, trembling with disbelief. Tove dropped to her knees, bow clattering beside her. Zera stood, Clarent in hand, its glow dim but steady.
Laverna gasped for breath, falling beside them.
"She's not gone," she whispered. "Only weakened. She'll return."
Zera nodded. "But we reminded her. The West is not hers to rule."
Together, they turned to the old beacon tower. With scorched hands and aching hearts, they lit it.
Flame rose through the storm.
A flare of defiance. Of mourning. Of unwavering rebellion.
The West belonged to the people.
And the war for the soul had just begun.