The camp was silent now, the fires reduced to embers. The twelve moved as one, stepping into the morning light with a precision that belied the casual teasing and laughter of the last two days.
Lucien led the group, cloak flowing unnaturally even without wind, the faint hum of the White stirring inside him. He didn't speak, but the air around him felt alive, a subtle warning that they were about to leave safety behind. Seliora fell in step beside him, her light weaving faint patterns across the ground as if marking a path forward.
Formations of War
Zarynth swaggered at the front, Vaelith at his side, both eyes scanning the horizon.
"You're trying to look heroic," Vaelith said dryly.
"Isn't it obvious?" Zarynth replied, spinning his sword casually. "It's mandatory."
Ashveil and Nysera trailed slightly behind, their usual banter subdued. Every glance and movement was deliberate, the shadows around Ashveil thickening like a warning net, Nysera's eyes sharp as she scanned the distance.
Kairo and Eryndra floated close together, walking with a rhythm only they understood. Every flicker of temporal energy around Kairo was mirrored by Eryndra's subtle manipulation of time threads, giving them an almost preternatural awareness of the terrain ahead.
Caelthorn and Morwyn brought up the rear, silent but immovable, their presence alone grounding the group. Veythar and Iralith moved in parallel, exchanging brief nods, their hands never straying far from weapon and void alike.
The formation wasn't for show. Every step was calculated. Every glance accounted for possible threats. The twelve were no longer individuals—they were a single force, ready to strike, to kill if necessary.
The World Beyond
The land ahead stretched wide and broken, a harsh contrast to the calm of their camp. Rivers glinted like fractured glass. Forests bent unnaturally under distant storms. The new nation awaited somewhere past the jagged mountains, its people oblivious to the approaching storm.
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "Stay alert. This nation isn't empty of threats."
Seliora's hand brushed his arm. "We're ready. We've faced worse."
He allowed himself a small nod. "Then let's make them remember the White exists."
Signs of Danger
Even as they marched, subtle disturbances rippled through the land—trees twisted, rocks levitated, and shadows moved of their own accord. The twelve sensed it instantly: the outer gods' minions were already testing the edges of the nation, probing defenses, and preparing for full-scale invasion.
Zarynth raised a hand. "Looks like the welcome party's early."
Vaelith smirked, flames licking her fingertips. "Let's not disappoint them."
Ashveil's shadow extended in jagged, creeping tendrils. Nysera's eyes glimmered. "Remember. Kill without mercy. We don't get second chances."
Even in this quiet, tension hummed like an electric wire. Every step forward was a countdown to chaos.
The Bond Holds
Lucien glanced at his companions. Twelve hearts, twelve voids, twelve wills—united by kinship, by history, by purpose. He could feel the pulse of the White inside him, resonating with each of them.
For the first time, he allowed himself to think beyond strategy and survival. They were more than fighters. They were a family.
And the world beyond would soon learn that families forged by the void are not to be underestimated.
The road stretched endlessly ahead, but the twelve walked it as one. The laughter, teasing, and quiet moments of the last days now felt like armor—humanity woven into the edges of their deadly power.
Ahead, the new nation waited. Behind it, the coming storm. And in between, twelve beings who would face the impossible, together.