Smoke writhed across the battlefield like serpents in retreat. The ground cracked beneath boots and claws, scorched and soaked in black blood. Above, a molten sky glared down, ashen clouds lit from within by fire and fury.
In the center of it all stood Ross.
His eyes were calm. His breaths measured.
He moved with a grace that didn't belong on any battlefield; fluid, unwavering, precise. Where he passed, demons fell, not in torrents but in patterns, as though caught in the pull of an unseen tide. His presence shaped the tempo of the battle without command, without shouting. He simply acted, and others adapted around him.
He was unmistakably human.
But somethingelse moved with him.
To his left, the Hero cut down a charging beast with a single radiant strike, the symbol of the divine shining like fire etched into his blade. The Hero, champion of the capital, chosen by prophecy, glanced toward Ross in the midst of battle, not with authority, but with measured acknowledgment. A nod passed between them. Equals.
The Hero moved forward again.
So did Ross.
They fought on the sameside, not just aligned, but woven together in motion, like twin currents feeding a larger wave.
High above the field, from the lip of a shattered ridge, Joel crouched, a comms stone pressed to his lips, breath hitching.
"East front holding. No reinforcement needed. Ross has established control of the inner perimeter," he reported, voice tight. "His coordination with the Hero is… seamless. It's like they've fought together for years."
He watched Ross redirect two mages with a gesture—fluid, confident, almost instinctual. Not a commander by rank, but the battle moved around him nonetheless.
"They trust him," Joel murmured. "Even the Hero defers."
There was a pause, and Joel's hand tightened around the comms crystal. He could feel something, a hum, low and vast beneath the world.
"Sir," he said carefully. "I don't think this is just strategy. There's something older moving through him. Something… watching."
He inhaled sharply.
The wind shifted.
The scent of salt water touched the air.
It made no sense. They were days from the sea.
Still, it lingered.
The battlefield vanished like breath on a mirror.
Joel dropped to his knees on Reina's wooden floor, gasping for air. The vision was gone, but its weight lingered in his chest like an anchor.
He couldn't move.
Across from him, Ross sat upright on the cot, awake, silent and staring at him.
Not alarmed.
Not angry.
Just watching.
Reina lay slumped near the table, unconscious from the powder Joel had used when he slipped inside. He hadn't meant to harm her—just buy time. He had to know. Was Ross a danger? A weapon planted by foreign hands? A godspawn?
Now he had his answer.
The vision hadn't come from Ross.
It had come from beyond.
Something old had looked through Ross. Through Joel.
And shown him what would come.
He hadn't been invited.
He had been warned.
Joel's limbs trembled. His heart hammered, not with fear of death—but with the primal understanding that some things in this world didn't kill trespassers.
They unmade them.
"He's protected," Joel realized. "Claimed."
Not possessed. Not cursed.
But recognized by a god older than any temple.
He didn't know the name. He didn't need to. The pressure still clung to the air, not wrathful, but watching. And should harm come to the boy…
Joel knew, deep in the marrow of his bones, that what waited would not be punishment.
It would be obliteration.
Ross hadn't moved.
But Joel saw something flicker behind his eyes—depthless calm, like the still center of a storm.
He forced a breath, and for the first time in years, Joel bowed his head.
Slow. Deliberate.
Not out of fear.
But respect.
—----------------------------------------
In the heart of the royal palace, beneath arches of gilded marble and light filtered through stained glass, King Theon of Durolan read in silence.
He sat not on a throne, but in a wide, sunlit chamber filled with scrolls, tomes, and maps of battlefields both old and current. A single parchment rested in his hands, sealed with Joel's personal sigil. He read it twice. Then a third time.
When he finally set it down, his expression was unreadable. Only the faint crease of his brow betrayed the storm behind his eyes.
"Not just the Hero," he murmured.
A servant at the edge of the chamber stiffened. "Your Majesty?"
Alric waved the man off with a slight shake of his head and rose, walking to the high window that overlooked the palace gardens. His hands were clasped behind his back, his tone low and contemplative.
"The gods have chosen again. And not the same one. Not through prophecy. This was... an unannounced claim."
Another silence. Then a quiet breath, not quite laughter.
"A scout, silenced by a look. A divine presence protecting a child without demand. A battlefield shaped around a name not yet known."
He looked out across his kingdom.
"This generation might be the one," he said softly. "The one that ends the war. Not just survives it. Ends it."
He turned back to the letter, eyes narrowed in thought.
"Find me everything on this boy," he ordered. "Background, lineage, anyone he's spoken to. I want him protected. I want him watched. And I want him ready."
A flicker of hope kindled behind his gaze. "The gods have moved. It's our turn now."