The battlefield no longer groaned with steel or screamed with fury. Instead, it whispered—a low, continuous hum of loss. Here, where once the Spire of Illumination stood tall among the clouds, there was only ruin. The stones lay shattered, their sacred runes extinguished. The crystal veins that pulsed through the land—lifelines of celestial power—had dimmed to cold, empty glass.
Rhea stood motionless at the center, her sword tip plunged into scorched earth. Around her, silence reigned. Bodies of celestials and rebels alike lay strewn across the wreckage—tangled in final embraces, reaching toward one another in death.
The Orb floated just above the broken altar, flickering in and out of existence. Cracks had begun to form across its once-perfect surface. Golden light seeped through them like blood from a wound. The magic it released was no longer the pure, harmonic essence it had once been. It was distorted, confused—alive and afraid.
Her breathing was shallow, but controlled. Every part of her ached. Her armor had fused to her skin in places, blistered from the heat of unleashed energy. Her left shoulder had been torn open, exposing the joint, but she felt no pain. Not yet.
Her fingers brushed the hilt of her sword, but she didn't draw it. Not until she understood what came next.
"Commander!"
Kael's voice echoed from the ash-swept distance, broken but urgent. He stumbled into view, armor cracked, face bloodied. His left arm was wrapped in makeshift cloth, soaked through. He was dragging the Reclaimed Order's standard, its pole splintered, the banner torn by fire and wind.
"Azarion's forces… they're gone. They've pulled back."
Rhea turned, her eyes dull with fatigue but sharp as ever. "Retreat?"
"Not retreat," Kael said, his tone dark. "A repositioning. They fled before something else arrived."
Rhea's gaze drifted eastward, to the ridgeline now cloaked in unnatural shadow. The clouds above churned unnaturally, forming a spiral that reached downward. The wind had no scent, but it carried a pressure that crushed the lungs. The ground vibrated beneath her boots.
And then she saw them.
Dark silhouettes rose beyond the broken hills—tall and robed in black, but not bound by wind or time. They moved without touching the ground, their forms flickering at the edges like illusions, yet she knew with certainty they were no phantoms. They were older than language. Older than the Orb.
"Wraithlords," she breathed.
Even Kael flinched at the name. "But they were—"
"Erased. Yes." Rhea's voice was cold. "But we didn't erase them well enough."
One of the Wraithlords glided forward, the wind bending around its presence. Its mask—obsidian, cracked, rimmed with runes—hid its face. But power radiated from it in waves, pressing against the minds of all who looked upon it.
"You broke the silence," it said, and its voice was a chorus—thousands of broken memories stitched together. "You awakened the wound. Now we return, not as conquerors, but as consequence."
The Orb pulsed violently. A fracture split down its center, light screaming from within. It hovered higher, then began to spin slowly, leaking wisps of energy that curled through the air like smoke.
The Wraithlords reached toward it—not physically, but with their essence. The tendrils of ancient hunger reached the Orb and drank.
"No," Rhea said sharply. "Stop—get away from it!"
But the damage was done. The Wraithlords fed upon the raw, unfiltered echoes of forgotten time—consuming the knowledge, the power, the fear sealed inside the Orb since the beginning.
And they grew.
The air thickened. The land beneath the ruins cracked. From the shadows behind the Wraithlords emerged more forms—less defined, more feral. Lesser shades. Echoes of warriors and kings who had once defied the divine, now raised by hunger and memory.
Kael staggered back. "They're… not just coming through. They're being rebuilt from what the Orb remembers."
Rhea's eyes blazed. "The Orb was never just a vessel. It was a recording. Of every battle. Every death. Every god it's ever known."
She turned to her forces, what remained of them. Clusters of celestials, rebels, and outcasts gathered amidst the ruins. No longer enemies, just survivors. They were burned, broken, missing limbs or vision, but they were still standing.
And they looked to her.
Rhea raised her voice, letting the wind carry it. "Regroup at the eastern ridge! Circle formation—use the glyph stones if you can find them! Ward the outer line and protect the healers!"
A few dozen moved. Then more. The discipline that had bound their rebellion—iron forged from pain—rose again. Even the fallen angels obeyed.
Kael approached her, face grim. "You don't actually think we can beat them."
"I think," Rhea said, tightening the straps on her vambrace, "that we didn't endure all this just to kneel at the end."
From her belt, she drew a fragment of the Orb—one that had splintered into her chestplate earlier in battle. It glowed faintly with amber light, throbbing like a heart.
Kael glanced at it. "You're going to use that?"
"I don't have a choice," she replied. "This piece still remembers the moment the Wraithlords were banished. If I can draw that memory out—manifest it—maybe we can replicate the seal."
"That almost killed the Firstborn. You're not a god, Rhea."
She smiled grimly. "No. But I'm what came after."
The Wraithlords were closer now. The lead one—its presence now towering—extended both arms. From the earth, black stone erupted, forming jagged obelisks inscribed with unholy runes. Each pulse of their magic distorted the world around them—trees withered, sky dimmed, time slowed.
The battlefield bent around them.
And yet, Rhea stepped forward.
She knelt and pressed the shard of the Orb to the ground. Her free hand traced sigils into the dirt—old ones, taught to her by the last of the Sky-Scribes. As she whispered, the shard responded. Images burst forth—lightning storms, cities torn asunder, gods screaming in silence.
A memory coalesced.
The day the Wraithlords were banished.
The memory took form—raw, unstable energy that spiraled into a sphere above her. It crackled with ancient intent.
One of the Wraithlords shrieked in a language that had no words. They recognized the spell.
Rhea rose slowly. Blood trickled from her nose, her ears, the corners of her eyes. The memory was too much for her mortal form—but she held it.
Behind her, the formation was ready. Mages stood in formation. Shields raised. Runes drawn. The eastern ridge shimmered with a protective barrier only half complete—but it would hold.
"I'm not here to win," Rhea said, her voice now layered with power. "I'm here to make sure you don't."
And then the battle began again.
The first impact was light—blinding, pure, a blast from the memory-core Rhea held aloft. It tore through the closest Wraithform, dispersing it like smoke. But more surged forward, now shrieking in fury.
Kael charged with a spear, slamming it into the base of a shadow construct. Mages unleashed firestorms. Celestials sang in broken voices, calling down lightning.
The Wraithlords answered with silence—a silence that consumed spells, voices, even movement. Within it, hope flickered like a dying candle.
And yet, the defenders did not fall.
Rhea stood at the front, radiating memory itself, her aura clashing with the void around the Wraithlords. Every step she took, the earth realigned beneath her. Every motion of her blade carved history back into place.
This was no longer a battle for survival.
It was a war for remembrance—for truth itself.
And though they were outmatched, though the enemy was beyond mortal comprehension, they fought.
Because if they didn't, the world would forget it had ever been whole.