The Fall of Restraint
The skies above Arkhelm burned crimson. Fire rained from the heavens, buildings cracked and crumbled, and the once-mighty Wall of Runestone lay shattered like brittle glass. Ash spiraled through the air like dying snowflakes as the earth trembled beneath the raw, unleashed power of the ancients.
Elian and Lyra were caught in a savage storm of destruction. Their blades met monstrous flesh, their bones cracked under ancient fists, and the screams of their comrades were drowned by the deep guttural roars of Kael and Thorne in their complete ancient forms. This was no battle. It was a slaughterhouse in a dying city.
Kael was a towering monster of smoldering stone and flame, his molten veins lighting the ground beneath him with each step. Thorne was a jagged colossus of bone and black tendrils, moving like a hurricane of agony, ripping through buildings and bodies with feral precision.
Elian's blade shattered after parrying one of Kael's blows. He tumbled back, crashing through a stone column and landing in a pool of blood—he didn't even know if it was his. Lyra, eyes bloodshot, let out a roar of her own as she launched herself toward Thorne, dual daggers trailing with lightning energy, but was swatted aside like a fly, vanishing into a collapsing tower.
Overhead, the sky blazed as T.E.R.O.S.A gliders strafed the battlefield with plasma bolts, but it was futile. The hybrids shrugged it all off like rain. Bodies littered the streets, fire swallowed buildings whole, and Arkhelm was being turned into a grave.
And yet, amid the horror, a lone figure watched it all with a strange calm.
Vornyx, still in his human form, sat atop a crumbling tower, legs dangling, chin in hand like a bored spectator at a gladiator pit. His glowing eyes flicked from one clash to another, a smirk curling his lips.
"Now this is entertainment," he mused aloud, laughing as Elian barely dodged Kael's tail.
But his amusement didn't last.
A sudden pang in his chest.
A face flashed in his mind—her face.
His little sister.
He stood abruptly.
"The hospital," he muttered. His smirk vanished. "She was still in the hospital."
In a blink, he was gone—flesh pulsing, muscles tearing through his clothes as he sprinted across the broken city. Walls blurred past. Flames danced beside him. He didn't stop for the screams, the dying soldiers, or the collapsing spires.
He only stopped when he reached it.
Or rather—what was left of it.
The Arkhelm City Hospital was a pile of jagged rubble, steel beams twisted like spaghetti, the building crushed beneath the weight of a tower Kael had brought down during the first moments of the siege. The white flag with the red cross still fluttered limply from a broken pole, stained black by soot.
"No... no, no, no—" Vornyx whispered, his voice cracking. He dropped to his knees and began to claw at the rubble, his nails splitting as he tore through stone, glass, and debris.
He dug like a madman. Blood smeared his hands. He screamed with every breath, desperation shredding his throat.
And then he found her.
Her small hand, pale and limp, buried beneath what used to be a bedframe.
Vornyx froze.
"No..."
He pulled her out gently, her body bloodied, cold, her white hospital gown soaked through. Her eyes were half-open, and dried tears streaked her cheeks.
She had been crushed.
Alone.
He let out a sound that wasn't human—something primal, raw, wounded. A wail that echoed over the battlefield and silenced the nearby fighting for a fleeting moment.
He held her body close, rocking back and forth, whispering apologies, curses, prayers. His tears hit her cold skin, mixing with the blood. He could feel it now—the crack in his soul becoming a chasm.
"I should've taken you with me... I should've protected you... I should've..."
A shadow fell over him.
He didn't look up.
He knew that presence.
Thorne.
Still in his ancient form, the beast crouched low behind Vornyx, his voice low and gravelly.
"Vornyx," he said.
Vornyx didn't respond.
Thorne's eyes burned as he stared at the broken sibling bond.
"You should know... this wasn't a casualty of war."
Vornyx slowly turned his head, fury in his eyes.
Thorne continued, voice cruel, tone almost smug. "We were ordered to destroy the hospital. To make sure your ties to humanity were severed. It was Xerath's command. He said the girl was a... liability."
The words didn't register at first.
Then—
Crack.
Vornyx's hands tightened around his sister's body, his veins glowing a deep crimson. He placed her gently on the ground and stood.
"You… killed her?" he asked, his voice low and eerily calm.
"We did what we were told," Thorne replied without shame. "Xerath knew your weakness—he feared it. So he removed it."
Vornyx's fists trembled. The heat pouring from his body began to melt the ground beneath his feet.
"You think... that would make me more loyal?"
He turned, his eyes now burning bright red, wisps of energy curling off his skin like smoke.
"You didn't kill my weakness," he growled. "You killed what kept my rage in check."
His body pulsed, bones cracking, his spine elongating. He transformed—slowly, horrifically—as his full ancient form tore through his human shell. This wasn't the same Vornyx the world feared.
This was worse.
This was The Real One.
The Vornyx that even Xerath had warned his lieutenants about.
His hide darkened into obsidian black, lined with molten red scars. His limbs grew monstrous, his aura pulsing like a heartbeat made of hatred.
Thorne took a step back.
"You really think Xerath can control me now?" Vornyx snarled, his voice now layered with a second, inhuman tone.
"Now... he's not my master."
"I am his reckoning."
With a roar that split the sky, Vornyx lunged at Thorne. Their clash sent a shockwave through the city. Buildings shattered. The battlefield paused.
The war had resumed, yes.
But now—
The real war had just begun.