Long before the gunfire.
Before the lance fell from the sky.
Before the signal.
It began with a flicker.
Inside Jackal, Arlo studied the Nomad signal when the device on his lap twitched—once, then again—static crackling like exposed nerves. That was the moment his mind began to slip.
"Shit," Arlo muttered, already popping open the casing, hands moving fast, eyes hyper-focused.
Rhea turned toward him. "What happened?"
Arlo didn't look up. "Hold on, it's bugging out—"
Rhea and Dima didn't dwell on it. They'd seen him fix worse under pressure.
But this time, something was different.
The flickering wasn't a bug.
It wasn't interference.
It was a door.
Buried between corrupted bytes and screeching white noise, something slipped through—purposeful. Hungry.
The Hollowed Saint.
Sariel's presence seeped through Jackal's firewall like ink through damp paper—unseen, unfelt, but exact. It didn't need to touch Arlo. It only needed his eyes. His ears. His attention.
As Arlo stared into the screen, recalibrating, the false signal synced with the rhythm of his thoughts. Subtle changes followed—blinks that lasted a heartbeat too long, breaths that slowed as if he were listening to something no one else could hear.
Then—
Silence.
Inside his mind, something clicked.
A voice—not spoken, not heard, but felt—whispered:
"Let's play a small game."
The others never heard it.
They only saw Arlo seal the device, lift his head, and announce a signal from the sky.
Then came the lance.
All three burst out of Jackal, weapons raised, aiming at Sariel as it descended.
And Sariel spoke again.
"Let's play a small game."
From there, the illusion built itself.
In Arlo's mind, they were ready.
They fought as a unit.
They adapted.
They planned.
Sariel taunted them, toyed with them, hurled its lance again and again.
But the truth—
Sariel never lifted its weapon.
They never fired at it.
It never dodged.
Never took flight.
There was no plan.
No claymore.
No clever trap.
There was only Arlo.
And the two people who trusted him.
Rhea was first.
In Arlo's mind, she barked orders, raised her rifle.
In reality, she hadn't fired at all.
She'd turned toward Jackal, already reaching for comms—ready to call for backup.
Arlo lowered his rifle.
Then he rushed her.
He seized her from behind, hand clamping around her throat, and fired twice into her abdomen. The shots punched through her armor and tore through her insides.
Rhea dropped instantly.
Her final breath left her lips in shock—never knowing who fired.
Blood pooled beneath her as she collapsed with a wet, hollow thud.
Dima shouted.
Not in anger.
In horror.
Arlo turned.
The Saint whispered:
"Kill him, before he kills you."
Arlo obeyed.
He fired once, then charged.
Dima dodged the first shot, but Arlo tackled him to the ground, mounting him with brutal force. Before Dima could bring his weapon up, Arlo shot his left arm and grabbed his vest.
Dima screamed.
Pain. Shock. Confusion.
His eyes locked onto Arlo's face.
There was nothing there.
No light.
No hesitation.
As if Arlo had already died.
Arlo shoved the muzzle into the bone at the base of Dima's neck, angling it down so the shot wouldn't miss.
Dima struggled, shouted his name—trying to pull him back.
Nothing reached him.
Arlo pulled the trigger.
Blood sprayed across Arlo's face.
The first shot killed Dima.
Arlo kept firing until the gun clicked empty.
Only then did he stand.
In his mind, the fight still raged.
He was still the hero.
Still buying time.
Still lining up the final shot to end the Saint.
Then the laughter returned.
Sharp.
Close.
Real.
"The game is over," the voice said, calm and patient.
"I win."
The sky collapsed into darkness.
And the illusion shattered.
Arlo stood before Sariel.
His gun trembled in his hand.
Rhea and Dima lay beside him—bullet holes torn through flesh and bone.
His hands were soaked in their blood.
His sidearm was still warm.
"No…" Arlo whispered, knees buckling.
"No… no, no, no…"
Blood ran from his gloves, dripped from his chest, pooled at his feet.
The gun slipped from his fingers and clattered against the concrete.
Shock hollowed his face.
His eyes unfocused.
His mind unraveled.
"What… what happened?" he whispered.
"Did… I do this?"
He stumbled back, staring at Rhea's lifeless eyes.
"I'm sorry…"
"I didn't mean to… I didn't…"
The words broke apart, repeating as blood bubbled from his lips, mixing with tears.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The lance was already through his chest.
Arlo gasped as Sariel lifted him effortlessly from the ground. Blood poured freely from his mouth and the wound.
"Betrayers don't get second chances," Sariel said.
The light faded from Arlo's eyes.
Sariel dropped him.
His body struck the ground beside the others—no final words, no mercy.
Only silence.
The Hollowed Saint looked down at the carnage.
Then it turned west.
Toward the heart of the storm.
Toward the prisoner they feared.
Toward Angelo.
The wind howled across the cracked hills, stirring dust into a dancing veil. Twilight bled into darkness, washing the land in faded gold. The military convoy had halted for the night, perimeter lights flickering to life as camp was established.
But even before the sun dipped below the horizon, something unnatural stirred beneath the earth.
At the edge of a scorched field, three Hollowed Saints stood—motionless as statues. They did not speak. They had no need to.
A voice reached them directly, familiar and absolute.
"Capture the family. Bring them here."
Vaelgor. The Burning Curse.
His command branded itself into their minds with the weight of law.
"It must remember what love feels like," the voice continued, cold with intent, "before we tear it away again."
The Saints moved.
The first was tall and jagged, its mask shaped like a cracked mirror. Mireglass, the Manipulator, turned east, limbs twitching as anticipation rippled through its frame.
The second floated just above the ground, trailing oily chains that writhed as if alive. Shrikecoil, the Executioner—a parasite-bound thing that fed on pain itself.
The third was smaller, leaner, cloaked in torn flags and ash. Its unblinking eyes never strayed. Thornmarch, the Hunter—its name carved into its own flesh in self-inflicted scars.
Together, they advanced.
Far ahead, at the edge of a ruined town converted into a temporary evac camp, the soldiers didn't see them at first.
But they felt it.
The wind died.
Birdsong froze mid-call, as if time itself hesitated.
Then the ground cracked.
Shrikecoil struck first.
A chain snapped from the treeline, coiling around a sentry's throat. He didn't even have time to scream before his head was torn clean from his body. Another chain followed—bursting through a tent wall, dragging a guard screaming across the field before crushing him into the dirt.
The alarm blared—
Too late.
Thornmarch surged forward, blades erupting from its spine as it vaulted the barricade like a falling star. Two soldiers died before either could raise a weapon.
Mireglass advanced more slowly, steps shimmering. With each movement, mirrored illusions split away from its form. The guards fired—
At the wrong one.
An illusion shattered.
So did a man's skull.
Inside the camp, panic erupted.
Sophia grabbed Emma's hand and ran for the rear transport. Alex followed close behind, clutching his sidearm, forcing himself not to look afraid.
"Move!" Sophia shouted. "Don't stop!"
James seized Olivia's arm, dragging her into the armored vehicle with the others as gunfire echoed behind them.
The Saints were closing in.
"Protect the civilians!" a squad leader barked—
Shrikecoil's chain tore him in half mid-sentence.
The few soldiers still standing opened fire. Bullets shredded the silence—
But not the Saints.
Their bodies bent in impossible arcs, flowing between shots like water through cracks.
Thornmarch was already inside the perimeter.
Then—
The world stilled.
The voice returned. This time, only Shrikecoil heard it.
"No survivors," Vaelgor commanded softly. "Other than the family. I want them desperate. I want it to see."
Shrikecoil's chains pulsed like veins.
It turned toward the fleeing truck.
Then—
The chains flew.