The Eastern Frontier....
News from Erebus arrived at last—the wyvern had fallen.
For Canute and his war council, it was more than a victory. It was a beacon of hope in a war that had swallowed so much. Time had been bought. Supplies secured. Morale restored. Canute allowed himself a rare breath of relief.
The battalion originally bound to reinforce Erebus now diverted eastward. Their new mission: the mountains where Octavius and Lucerne were locked in a losing struggle against Triglav.
The ancient beast was more than a foe—it was a storm. It slipped through every strike, every trap, with uncanny precision, always one step ahead of their combined efforts.
Canute, anticipating the worst, had already authorized a desperate measure. The "self-destruct protocol"—a network of devastating charges planted throughout the mountain range—was now armed. The scale of destruction it promised was staggering, enough to wipe out entire cities. It was no longer a threat. It was a promise.
While Octavius and Lucerne adapted their tactics, Erebus regrouped. He emerged from the western front with a restructured and reinforced army, built from survivors and fresh recruits. Each man and woman who followed him now carried the will of the fallen. He had not retreated—he had evolved.
He had begun his pursuit of the last standing foe.
---
In the searing heart of the volcanic ranges, another battle unfolded—more brutal, more intimate. Helios and Rudolph fought against Vlad amidst rivers of molten rock and choking ash.
The air crackled with violent energy as the cavern shook with each clash of steel. Vlad's forces—twisted amalgamations of metal, flesh, and shadow—were relentless. Blackened tentacles emerged from a corrupted core, shielding Vlad and striking with surgical precision. Their enemy had grown beyond mortal form.
Helios, already wounded—his leg severed in an earlier battle—fought with divine energy bleeding from his soul. His movements were unsteady, erratic, but each strike still carried celestial force.
Rudolph stood beside him, wielding his blade with his non-dominant arm. Pain etched his face, but he did not falter.
Between attacks, Helios gasped, sweat pouring from his brow. "We go with the final plan," he said.
Rudolph's eyes widened. "But sire—what of the alchemists? They'll be caught in the blast."
"They'll have to die," Helios muttered, biting his lip until blood bloomed.
Rudolph closed his eyes, the weight of the moment crushing him. He knew Helios better than anyone. The man did not order death lightly. If he had reached this point, it was because every other path had crumbled.
"I'll do it," Rudolph said finally, voice thick with regret. "Let me go alone. If we perish, let one of us be left to remember."
"No," Helios said firmly. "We finish this together."
Despite the sting of betrayal that still lingered between them, Helios would not let Rudolph bear the burden alone.
They moved quickly.
Using the chaos of battle, they lured the corrupted soldiers toward the exposed core—still shielded by an invisible barrier. Once close enough, Helios began the incantation, channeling the last of his divine essence into hidden explosives planted within their own mechanical units.
"Left," he mouthed. Rudolph vanished into the smoke, his steps silent as shadow.
Helios faced Vlad one final time. "Your schemes die with you."
A flash split the darkness, followed by a deafening explosion. The volcano erupted—violently, catastrophically. Two neighboring peaks crumbled with it.
From the edge of the blast radius, Helios and Rudolph emerged, burned and bloodied. They said nothing. Words were too small for what they had done.
"Is it over?" Rudolph asked, voice barely audible.
Helios stared into the ash-filled sky. "Who knows," he said grimly. "But we can't stay."
He turned, guilt clinging to him like soot. He had sacrificed comrades, devout alchemists, and his own divine strength. When Rudolph offered support, Helios brushed him off. He could not accept comfort—only penance.
Together, weary and worn, they began the long journey home.
---
Far from the battlefield, in the sanctum of the Alchemists' Tower, Cornelius executed Luciana's secret orders.
Deep beneath the Temple of the Dawn—where thousands gathered daily in worship—explosives laced with divine energy were hidden beneath layers of sanctified stone. The temple priests, unaware of the true nature of the plan, had been instructed to urge the citizens to pray, to channel divine energy toward protection.
Citizens listened as the holy men chanted:
> "O faithful! Come to prayer! Call upon the Lord to cleanse the land of cursed creatures! Offer your spirit without fear, for in Him, we shall be delivered!"
In the Council Chamber, Luciana sat in silence as the Minister of Religious Affairs gave his report. "The people have embraced the temple's message, Your Highness. Hope is rising."
But it was short-lived.
"The Destroyer lives still," said the Minister of Border Defense, his voice edged with dread. He was a grizzled veteran—once her mother's sworn protector. "It will not stop until all life has been extinguished."
Luciana tapped her fingers against the carved table. "Do you suggest we evacuate the injured, the elderly, and orphaned children to the next city across a warzone? That's not a strategy. That's suicide."
Before the tension escalated, Akari—Head of Intelligence—rose from her seat.
"Your Highness," she began. "We've received new reports. Dabbah has changed course again."
Gasps and curses rippled across the chamber.
"What in the seven hells is going on?" a minister muttered.
"Continue, Lady Arcea," Luciana said, ignoring the murmurs.
Akari nodded. "The Grand Alchemist believes Dabbah is either developing intelligence—or is being controlled by an outside force. Meanwhile, allied forces report the wyvern has been slain. But Triglav remains, preventing their withdrawal."
She paused. "Our alchemists have completed a prototype weapon powerful enough to breach the barrier around Amanécer. But the blast radius may destroy a part of Amanécer including a third of the city."
Luciana closed her eyes. Her father was still missing. Now the city itself hung in balance.
"When will it be ready?" she asked.
"In a week," Akari replied quietly.
"We don't have that long," Luciana said. "Inform the Imperial Chancellor. Double the workforce. They must finish it in four days."
Akari hesitated, then bowed. "Yes, Your Highness."
Luciana rose. "Prepare the border defenses. We attack in four days. This meeting is adjourned."
As the council dispersed, Luciana moved to the window, bathed in golden light. Morning had broken—but she felt no warmth. Two years of war had stolen her strength, her joy, and perhaps, her soul.
---
At Luciana's Quarters...
In the palace courtyard, Nemesis trained under Tiberius's watchful eye. The boy's laughter echoed through the crisp morning air, a moment of light in a world clouded by war.
Luciana paused at the garden's edge, watching her son. When he spotted her, he waved with radiant joy. She waved back, heart softened.
"Since when did he grow so tall?" she whispered, remembering the frightened boy she had once comforted.
Inside, peace was fleeting. Her aunt Aurora appeared, cradling a wailing infant.
"Lucia! Finally," she said, exhausted. "He's been fussing for hours."
Luciana scooped Hades into her arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Hungry again?"
"He kept rooting at me," Aurora said with a laugh. "I think he's figured out I'm not his mother."
Luciana chuckled softly. She knew Hades would lightly bump into her bosom whenever he was hungry.
"Go rest, Aunt. I'll handle him."
Luciana settled on the couch, nursing her youngest. The room grew quiet, save for the soft sound of the baby's breathing.
One year had passed since Hades' birth. Nemesis would turn five soon. And still, the war dragged on.
Luciana looked down at her son, his tiny hand wrapped around her finger.
She bore the weight of a realm. She led armies, made impossible decisions, and faced demons both human and divine.
But in that quiet moment, as the world paused—she was simply a mother.
And for now, that was enough.