The siren cut through the corridor like a knife. It sliced past my eardrums and rattled my chest instead.
I didn't flinch. Couldn't.
My blade met his neck halfway. He gurgled once, then slumped. I caught his body and yanked it close to muffle the fall, dropping him behind a half-collapsed pillar.
Too late, of course. That sound would've triggered every alarm, every patrol, every damn defense hidden within the fortress walls.
I turned back toward the corridor—the crimson chamber pulsed ominously at the far end.
No time left.
I sprinted.
As I ran, the runes flared brighter along the walls, casting jagged shadows.
I reached the threshold and halted.
The door—if it could be called that—was a fused mess of mana-scorched iron and bone. Runes spidered out from its seams like veins.
Behind the door, voices echoed.
One of them was his. The General. "…he's already inside. The alarm was tripped near the auxiliary stair. Seal the chamber until I say otherwise."
A second voice answered.
Great.
The door began to seal—groaning shut on some slow, arcane hinge.
I surged forward, slipping in just before it could lock, landing in a crouch on a stone ledge decorated in red carpet that overlooked the chamber below.
Crimson light poured from a massive circle carved into the floor—etched with elemental script I only half recognized. Five intersecting rings. One was already glowing brighter than the rest—Fire.
In the center, a crystal sphere floated above a pedestal, suspended mid-air and pulsing in sync with the sigils below. And beside it the leader stood cloaked in crimson, one hand outstretched toward the sphere.
And behind him—
Wait, what?!
I hesitated.
The lieutenant general was right there behind him, watching the door. But he'd been in the storage room. I was sure of it. He couldn't have gotten here first.
Unless…
My detour through the side hall. Damn it. He slipped past me while I was playing it quiet. He took the direct route to the chamber.
He spotted me instantly.
"What's a boy doing in a place like this?"
I stepped out from the ledge and dropped down into the circle's outer perimeter. The runes beneath my feet sparked in protest.
The leader didn't move. Just kept channeling whatever mana fed into the circle—his eyes unfocused, lips murmuring in a language I didn't recognize but felt instinctively was wrong.
The lieutenant general stepped forward, like he'd been waiting for this. His eyes flicked once to a rope-wrapped dagger coiled at my wrist, then paused when he landed on my blacked-out conical hat.
It was pierced clean through the front by Areer's strike, with three feathers dangling from the sides: two on the left, one on the right. They hung quietly, like punctuation that didn't need explanation.
Then his gaze dropped to my coat—black as night, trimmed in bruising burgundy. The rest of the feathers lined the shoulders. Left: one. Right: two.
"Cute," he said. "They dressed you like a Reaper, little Wraith."
"I'm not here for a fashion show," I replied, my tone flat. "I came for information. Then to kill youall. But as it stands, one might do without the other."
I didn't wait for a response.
I darted in first, dagger gripped tight in my right hand. The rope wrapped around my palm flexed with every heartbeat.
My first slash came fast—aimed for his side, hip to rib.
But the lieutenant general was quicker than I expected.
He pivoted into the attack, using the flat of his sword to force my blade wide. I used the recoil to spin, letting the tension pull me into a tight arc. My left foot planted; my right leg snapped around behind it.
A clean rotation. The blade curved with me.
I came back fast—reversed momentum—and drove the dagger back toward his gut. The movement wasn't elegant, but it was quick.
He was already recovering.
He twisted again—fluid—and brought his gauntleted fist down like a hammer. It slammed into my shoulder—hard. My vision blurred as I was flung sideways, skidding against the glyph-etched stone.
My boots scraped to a stop at the edge of the summoning ring, shoulder throbbing. I regained my footing and pivoted, flaring the rope and looping the dagger in a tight arc around my hip—just enough to catch his thigh.
It glanced off armor. He swept a counter-strike sideways—too close for comfort. I leaned back, feeling the wind kiss my jaw.
Close.
Too close.
We moved in a tight circle now—his blade wide, my knife tight and humming on its rope leash like a viper ready to strike.
I launched a short-range throw—dagger arcing out, barely longer than my reach. It scraped his bracer. Before it could drop, I jerked the rope back—caught it clean, looped it in for another strike. A rhythm. Hook and return.
"Nice trick," he muttered. "You're fast."
"You're slow," I shot back between gasps.
Then—above us—something cracked.
The moment shattered. I didn't know what was happening above us, but I wasn't going to let this opportunity go to waste.
The lieutenant general faltered just slightly—enough.
I surged forward—
Until the ceiling cracked.
A fault line ripped across the dome, a thunder that drowned even the circle's screams. Dust fell first. Then stone.
Then her.
She dropped through the breach in a coiled arc, landing hard on the edge of the upper ring—knees bent, blazer flaring wide behind her.
The girl wore a white cropped blazer. White hair, too—cut sharp, streaked silver in the glow of the circle. The rest of her outfit was black as night, bone plating curling over her outer thighs—not worn but grown.
The chamber flinched.
Kyr stood, spine straight, eyes locked on the center.
The convict in her grip? Less elegant.
Distracted by the sudden arrival of my comrade, I barely noticed the lieutenant general surge forward. But I wasn't about to get caught off guard that easily.
As the towering man closed in, my blade flew up instinctively, catching his strike just in time to keep my ribs intact.
"I left you alone forten minutes," Kyr huffed. "And you already triggered an apocalypse."
I blocked another strike, teeth gritted. "Pretty sure I left you. If you don't mind, I could use a little help—"
"I was helping," Kyr countered, dragging the convict by the collar like he was a misbehaving dog. "Amazing tour guide, by the way."
The prisoner staggered upright, blinking as if reality hadn't caught up with him yet. Then his gaze locked past us. He froze.
"No... No no no—he's actually doing it. He's summoningtheArbiter—"
Kyr squinted toward the center of the glowing runes. "The hell's anArbiter?"
The general turned—slow, deliberate—his voice rising with the reverence of a sermon, each word carved in conviction.
"The Wishbearer. He who grants destiny... to those bold enough to set him free."
Kyr blinked. "Huh. Sounds like a fairy tale."
The convict spoke beside her. "It's real. He's not just a myth. He gives second chances. Power."
Steel shrieked past my shoulder.
Too close.
I twisted beneath the downswing, but my heel slipped—stone slick with blood, balance lost.
The man surged forward.
Blade raised in a brutal arc.
This wasn't a feint.
I instinctively reached for shadow-travel, but nothing. The crimson light had scared the darkness away.
This was it.
I glanced back—just a flicker toward Kyr.
She saw it.
The arc. The slip. The cut coming down.
An execution in motion.
She didn't hesitate.
She dropped the convict without a word.
She dropped in—no warning.
Her forearm slammed into the general's wrist, knocking his descending blade off-course. Steel shrieked as it ricocheted off stone, sparks scattering like broken stars.
Then her knee drove up into his ribs.
A sickening crack. The lieutenant staggered back, breath hitching.
"Nice of you to join in," I rasped, still on the floor.
Kyr tilted her head. "I figured you had that one."
I scoffed, breath shaky. "I don't do head-on, and you know that."
Blood soaked into my sleeves, warm against my skin. My breath steadied, but the fight wasn't over yet. I pushed up from the floor. Feet planted. Blade raised.
I moved first. Low stance. Dagger gripped tightly.
His sword arced wide—brutal power.
But Kyr blurred forward. Quick. Fierce.
Her thigh slammed into his hip—bone plate clapped hard against his greave. The angle shattered.
I was already sliding in. The cut was fast—a tight stroke across his waist. Armor absorbed most of it, but the grunt told me enough.
He spun, gauntlet flying toward my head. I dropped under it, then let the dagger fly. The tether snapped taut—my arm stretching—and the blade struck true beneath his ribs. Not deep. Just enough.
I jerked it back home, the hilt slapping into my palm.
He stumbled.
Kyr surged in—fluid and silent, like blood threading through water. She reached down, yanked a spike from her own leg—bone grown, sharpened, turned weapon. The strike came swift. She aimed high—underarm, soft plate.
Sparks spat against armor.
He turned, snarled, and swung wide.
Kyr didn't flinch. She raised fresh bone—curved, calcified—formed a shield mid-motion. His fist cracked into it with a sound like thunder.
She reabsorbed it before it could lock her down.
I was already pivoting at her side. Dagger firm in my grip. Tight arc. The blade kissed behind his knee.
Bone met steel. Deflected again. He snapped toward me, swinging wildly.
I pulled back, then slipped a couple of feet behind Kyr and sprinted forward. She caught me coming and dropped into a low crouch. In one seamless move, I used her back as a step and launched myself. Legs tucked midair. My ivory dagger gripped tight in both hands as I raised it above my head. Beneath me, the world shrank into lines as it narrowed. No sound. No clutter.
Kyr didn't lag behind. She pressed off a shallow stone ridge carved into the inner ring—just a half-step's worth of broken elevation—and blasted forward, low. Her knee nearly scraped the floor. Bone coiled over her forearm like claws, flexing into a jagged blade. She looked like she'd burst through him.
His body twisted—not to evade, but to brace. He brought his sword up toward me, the higher threat. Wrong choice.
Kyr collided with his lower half a split-second before I landed—bone shrieking against armor, her strike raw and anchored.
His stance crumbled.
I dropped with gravity's full blessing—dagger descending like a verdict.
Steel cracked.
I landed hard, blade striking down through the stagger—but not clean. His gauntlet whipped around mid-fall, catching my ribs on the deflect. The impact staggered me just enough to lose momentum.
He recovered fast. Faster than I liked.
His blade came roaring sideways—full momentum behind it. I blocked with the flat of my own, but the force rang through my arm. I twisted from the rebound, letting it drag me into motion, and reset into a crouch. Then—
The floor pulsed beneath my boots. Light swelled in the summoning rings. The third circle lit up.
Ice.
The temperature dropped. The air was crisped. My breath came out white.
Too long. I'd waited too long. The lieutenant had Kyr now. My job was clear.
"He's yours," I whispered.
Kyr didn't flinch. Just nodded. "I'll keep him dancing."
I turned and ran—sprinting for the general while the room pulsed with cyan around us.
I pushed hard across the summoning ring, boots dragging thin trails through the frost forming on the glyphwork. The chill bit into my fingers. Ice spread out fast—spreading from the third circle like a heartbeat.
The general stood ahead, one hand raised, lips still muttering. Chanting. Or praying. Or begging.
His frame was wiry, not imposing. But the mana swirling around him wasn't decorative—it coiled like smoke, like desperation given form. He saw me coming.
Didn't flinch. Didn't rush.
He lowered his hand, and the mana shivered.
Blue flame bloomed—not hot, not wild, but icy. It burst from his palm and slashed toward me in a horizontal wave.
I dove to the side. The frostfire skimmed past—biting stone, flash-freezing part of the ring's edge. I rolled, got to my feet, and sprinted low.
He twisted his hands again—graceful but sluggish—and two more arcs of frostfire lashed out, crossing mid-air like braided spears.
I slipped between them. Barely.
The chill kissed my shoulder, numbing half my arm. I let momentum carry the spin forward—dagger in hand, breath coming out white.
He raised his arm again—too slow. I was already inside his reach. I slammed into his side, driving the dagger low toward his ribs.
A glyph flickered to life across his coat—a defense spell. Not crafted, just scraped together. It absorbed part of the blow, flared, flickered, then burst. He yelped, stumbled, and crashed back against the pedestal.
His left hand clutched the crystal sphere—anchoring the ritual, pulsing like a trapped heart. His lips moved faster.
No spell this time. No defense. A cry. I recognized panic when I heard it.
I darted forward again. But the air was thinner here. Colder. The chill wasn't just an element.
It was a voice whispering into my bones.
I planted my foot to pivot—and my knee barely responded. My body locked in half-turn, one arm still extended, dagger dangling from the tether like a weight I couldn't lift. I tried again. Nothing.
I was freezing.