The storm had not broken by the time the Iron guild in Kolma burned.
Iron shutters had been torn from their frames, the black smoke of torched guildhouses rising into the night like funeral pyres. Diana's spear gleamed wet in the torchlight, its adamant edge painted with the blood of constructs and men alike. Kallus and Benji fought at her side, their trident and blades sweeping through the last resistance, while the Dionian Moonhunt flowed like wolves through the streets, cutting down armored guild guards and smashing their strange aethertech devices beneath hammer and axe.
The Iron Guild's office—the heart of their work in Kolma—had already fallen. The obsidian bicorn loomed at the broken doors, its red eyes casting an eerie glow across the ruined square. Inside, the records and apparatus had been seized or destroyed. Parchments smoldered, crystalline tools shattered, the floor slick with ash and ink.
Diana stood at the head of the chamber, her cloak torn, her arms streaked with dirt and rain, but her voice steady as she spoke to the gathered warriors.
"The Guild is broken here," she said, gaze sweeping across both Dionians and her own allies. "But Kolma is only a limb. The body still breathes."
Kallus planted his trident into the ruined floor. "The governor of Leto."
"Exactly," Diana replied, her tone cold as steel. She strode to the shattered desk at the center of the chamber, where maps and ledgers lay scattered in the firelight. With one swift motion, she seized the governor's seal—proof enough of collusion—and lifted it for all to see. "The Guild does not move in shadows without protection. They've been shielded from above."
Outside of the Iron guild building, Selme, scarred jaw catching the firelight, stood with her wolf-fur cloak clinging heavily from the rain. Around her, the surviving Dionians tightened leather straps and steadied their freed kin—emaciated, blinking at the sudden return to the world outside their chains.
"My hunt and I will return to the forest and report to our Archon," Selme said, her voice carrying the weight of command. Her gaze swept the gutted Iron Guild building—its walls scorched, its floor littered with twisted tools of metal and glass, the acrid reek of burned ink clinging to the air. Strange machines loomed inside the corners, their gears silent at last, their light guttered out. She spat in the dirt. "Thanks to you, Thread-Weaver, we have pulled our people back from damnation."
Diana inclined her head, her hand tightening slightly on her spear. "If possible, I would meet your Archon myself."
At that, Selme's scar pulled taut in a smile—one without warmth. "Do not mistake me," she said, stepping closer, her shadow stretching across the ground. "You wear the wind like a mantle. You fight as if the threads themselves bend to your will. But you are still of the Imperium, Diana Arkanis. That stain is not forgotten."
Diana held her gaze, unflinching.
Selme barked a short order in the Dionian tongue, and her riders began gathering the rescued captives, wrapping them in furs and setting them onto spare mounts. The hall filled with the clatter of hooves and the low growl of their war chants.
"We are enemies still," Selme added as she turned, her wolf-cloak flaring in the torchlight. "But I will tell my Lady Archon of your intent." Then, with a sharp gesture, she led her people into the night, their silhouettes melting into the rain-soaked streets of Kolma.
Back inside the building, Diana returned to the guild's chamber, which was quiet, save for the crackle of dying fires.
Kallus stepped forward, trident resting against his shoulder, his boots crunching over shattered crystal. He stopped at Diana's side, watching the last Dionians vanish into the mist through the window. A strange, unsettled look crossed his face.
"Strange," he murmured. "Never thought I'd fight beside them. The Moonhunt of the Karyai, no less. They're as likely to cut a man's throat in the dark as they are to shake his hand." His eyes flicked to her. "So. Are we going after the governor?"
Diana's gaze had already shifted to the pile of records and instruments on the broken desk—the remnants of the Guild's secrets. The parchment curled from heat, the ink blurred with water, but there was enough. Ledgers sealed with the governor's mark. Names. Routes. Payments. Evidence.
"Yes," she said at last, her voice quiet, but firm as steel. "We go to Leto. But before that…" She trailed a hand over the stained vellum, her mind already racing. "…I need to know exactly how deep this runs."
Her fingers hovered above the governor's seal, and the tug of fate pressed faintly at her chest. Threads woven into the parchment, threads that pulled not only to Leto, but further still.
****
The obsidian bicorn's hooves struck the wet earth like drums of war, each step reverberating through Diana's bones. The beast's coal-red eyes cut through the mist as it carried her north, its horns catching stray flickers of stormlight. Diana sat astride its broad back, her cloak whipping in the gale, her thoughts heavy with the knowledge she could no longer unsee.
The Hierophant's corpse still lingered in her memory—his body less man than machine, wires coiling into his flesh, strange contraptions humming with alien power. His soldiers had been the same: bodies armored and augmented, their strength beyond human, their wounds healing as if the machines themselves were drinking their blood to restore them.
Aethertech.
Diana whispered the word beneath her breath, tasting the weight of it. A form of power that did not come from a Mystery or a bloodline, nor even the half-truths of relics, but from machines harnessing what should belong only to the divine. It unsettled her in ways she could not yet shape into words.
Relics she understood. They were remnants of the Heroic Age, born of the gods' favor—spears that carried thunder, shields woven with flame, gifts bestowed upon mortals who had proven themselves in trials long buried by time. Even shattered, even dulled by centuries, relics still bore the breath of divinity.
But Aethertech… Aethertech mocked that breath.
It took what had once been sacred and reverse-forged it, binding aether into circuits and gears, creating weapons and augmentations that did not honor the divine but consumed it. It was not merely a tool. It was a theft.
Her hands tightened around the shaft of her spear. The gods are gone. Their mysteries broken. And yet… someone has found a way to counterfeit their fire.
Diana's gaze drifted over the horizon behind her, where the storm bled into the darkening line of the Inner Sea. Most smiths of the age were little better than tinkerers, crafting trinkets infused with faint traces of aether—glorified charms, nothing more. Even the smith-cults sworn to Hephaestus could no longer forge weapons to rival the true relics of old. Their secrets were fractured, their forges shadows of what once had been.
And yet, the Iron Guild had produced soldiers like that. Automatons beyond her understanding. Devices that could hold villagers in liquid prisons. Bands of metal that turned flesh into something alien.
Diana shivered, though the rain was warm against her skin.
If Aethertech was spreading… it meant someone had unearthed a secret that even the Hephaestus cult had lost. That thought gnawed at her like rust in a blade.
But who could have done it?
The cult of the Smith God guarded their knowledge with oaths and blood. Even the Imperium's finest artificers could only mimic fragments of their craft. For the Iron Guild to build machines that could rival Mysteries—no, consume them—meant the impossible had happened. Someone had rediscovered a divine equation, a language that could rewrite both man and god.
If this enemy could wield such a power—one that dared to rival the gifts of Olympus—then what else might they be capable of?
Diana's mind raced, but she forced the thought away as the horizon shifted.
The landscape softened from wild hills to paved roads and cultivated fields. Ahead, the capital of Ashkara Province—Leto—rose from the mists like a vision half-remembered. Marble domes gleamed faintly under the dull sky, their gold filigree dulled by soot and age. The city walls were high, proud, and tired—etched with old murals of artisans and gods once worshiped openly. The scent of clay and iron filled the air, mingled with the perfume of dye workshops and burning oils.
Behind her, the Bicorn's vast shadow rippled over the road. The obsidian creature descended with a heavy gust, its hooves striking sparks on the stone. The two horns glowed faintly, runes of crimson tracing along their edges.
Kallus and Benji clung to its back behind her, silent as the city loomed.
When the Bicorn landed near Leto's gates, the guards flinched, hands flying to their weapons—but none dared speak. The beast's coal eyes burned with such sentient fire that even trained soldiers stepped back from its heat.
Diana slid from the saddle with quiet grace, her boots sinking into the damp earth. The Bicorn exhaled a sound between a snort and a sigh, then dissolved into smoke—its form collapsing into shadow until only a faint black shimmer remained, threading itself along the line of Diana's own.
Kallus exhaled, shaking his head. "Still gets me how the captain managed to tame a Noble creature," he said.
Benji smirked. "Tame isn't the word I'd use."
Diana didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the walls of Leto—smooth marble veined with gold, rising pale against a colorless sky. The storm that had ravaged the Ashen Coast hadn't reached this far inland, yet the air still carried its heaviness, thick and humid with the scent of distant rain. The clouds hung low and gray, smothering the sunlight into a wan, silvery haze that made every color seem faded.
And yet, the city lived as if nothing was amiss.
Leto, famed for its artisans and philosophers, was awash in noise and motion. Silk banners rippled from balconies, dyed in the colors of the Imperial Eagle. The sound of flutes and drums drifted from the avenues, clashing with laughter and the rhythmic chant of revelers. Petals littered the cobblestones like confetti, mixing with the dust and the faint smell of oil and smoke.
The Eagle Parade Festival was in full swing—citizens in gilded masks and painted tunics moving in processions beneath arches of laurel. Statues of past emperors were draped in crimson cloth, and golden effigies of the divine bird were carried through the streets, its wings outstretched toward the heavens.
To anyone else, it might have looked like joy.
But to Diana, it felt like denial.
The city celebrated while the southern villages burned and vanished into silence. The air tasted sweet, but beneath it lingered rot.
The music grew louder as they pressed into the city proper. Crowds spilled through the avenues like a living tide, their laughter echoing between marble colonnades draped with crimson banners. Perfume and incense masked the sweat of too many bodies, and flower petals stuck to Diana's boots as she walked.
Jugglers and dancers in eagle-feather costumes spun through the streets, their movements sharp and practiced. Children waved paper wings on sticks, shouting blessings to the Emperor. From the balconies, nobles in silk robes tossed gold coins to the people, who scrambled over one another to catch them.
Kallus grimaced. "You'd never know there's famine outside these walls."
Benji snorted. "Or that half their grain comes from villages that don't exist anymore."
Diana said nothing. Her cloak hood shadowed her face, but her eyes never stopped moving—marking guards at the corners, following the banners hung from every tower. The Imperial Eagle loomed over every archway, but its gilded wings seemed almost mockingly bright against the dim sky.
At the heart of the square, a troupe of singers performed a hymn to the Emperor—his "eternal wisdom and divine blood," their voices rising in false reverence. Diana felt her jaw tighten. He feasts while his people starve. He dances while the south drowns in ash.
She veered down a side street, away from the parade. The din dulled behind them, replaced by the muted hum of the craftsman's quarter—the smell of hot metal, dye, and clay filling the air. The further they went, the fewer decorations they saw. The laughter faded into murmurs; the streets here were quieter, forgotten beneath the shadow of Leto's opulence.
Diana's base lay in the western quarter, a converted workshop she had taken over upon her first arrival with Alaric and her retinue. She felt her throat tighten as they approached.
The building looked the same—sturdy, nondescript, its windows dark—but the energy was wrong. Empty.
Her surviving guards moved along the perimeter, and when they caught sight of her, their eyes widened in shock. Hands that should have saluted froze mid-motion. Their glances darted behind her, expecting to see the others—Alaric, Mira, the squad that had left with her.
But only Kallus and Benji followed at her back. The silence said the rest. Their absence could only mean one thing.
The base was dimly lit when Diana entered, its old workshop walls lined with scattered maps, reports, and half-burned candles that dripped wax like frozen tears. The air smelled faintly of oil, parchment, and the metallic tang of weapon polish.
She removed her cloak and draped it across the chair nearest the hearth. The fire burned low, a restless orange glow that flickered across her face, casting long shadows across the room.
Mira stood near the window, the hood of her gray cloak drawn back, her hair still damp from the rain. Of all her agents, Mira was the most precise—sharp-eyed and steady-handed, a woman who blended into any crowd like smoke. She had arrived not five minutes after Diana returned, her expression tense, her clothes dusted with the powdered marble of the governor's palace.
Eudoro sat cross-legged near the hearth, his patched cloak steaming as it dried. The old beggar's remaining eye gleamed beneath his hood, reflecting the light like a shard of obsidian. His hands trembled slightly as he nursed a cup of watered wine—more from age than fear, though his silence was heavy.
Diana sat opposite them, the desk before her cluttered with open scrolls and bound reports. The scratch of quills and the faint crackle of the fire filled the space as she read through the gathered information. Every word weighed more heavily than the last.
The city outside was alive with revelry.
Even through the shuttered windows, the muffled noise of the Eagle Parade could still be heard—the dull thump of drums, the distant roar of the crowd. The festival in honor of Zeus—the once-great god who had ruled the heavens—was coming to its end. Banners still fluttered in the streets; laughter still echoed beneath the gold-cast domes of the senate houses.
And yet, here in the shadows of the craftsman's quarter, Diana read reports written in blood and secrecy. Villages erased from maps. Grain shipments delayed and redirected to private stores. Prisoners quietly transported from the southern roads to the capital.
Her eyes narrowed at one parchment in particular—a ledger bearing the seal of Governor Valcion himself. Payments funneled to the Iron Guild. "Maintenance contracts" for "mechanical projects" beneath the city.
Mira's voice broke the silence. "They've been using the governor's authority as cover," she said, stepping closer. "Underneath his estate, there's a hidden foundry. Aethertech components are being assembled there—smuggled in from the coast. I counted seven shipments this week alone. The guards don't even realize what they're protecting."
Diana's gaze rose from the parchment, her fingers tapping the edge of the desk. "So he's not only complicit… he's expanding their reach."
Mira nodded. "Yes, my lady. The governor dines with merchants and smiles for the festival crowds, but the real work happens beneath his own floors."
Eudoro cleared his throat softly, his voice gravelly. "And the people cheer for him," he muttered. "They see the bread he throws from his balconies, and they think him generous. None see the bones he's grinding to make it."
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the air. Diana leaned back in her chair, the glow outlining the hard lines of her face.
Outside, the last hymn of the festival rose into the evening air—a song to Zeus, to his thunder, to his eternal reign. The irony twisted bitter on her tongue.
"If Zeus still ruled," she said quietly, "he'd burn this city to cinders for its hypocrisy."
Mira glanced at her, uncertain if it was blasphemy or prayer.
Diana looked back down at the papers, her voice steady. "No more hiding. At dawn, we move on the governor's palace."
She gathered the parchments into a stack and slid them aside, her gaze hardening with purpose.
"This festival may honor the Eagle," she said, rising to her feet. "But tomorrow, it will see the storm."
"Still," Eudoro rasped, his single eye narrowing as he leaned forward in his chair, "it's madness to invade the governor's palace." The firelight caught the hollow of his cheek, carving deeper lines into his weathered face. "That place is crawling with mercenaries—real killers, not parade guards. And your forces…" He gestured vaguely toward the handful of weary soldiers standing at the edges of the room. "Your men are bloodied, thin. You'd be throwing yourselves into a slaughterhouse. Reinforce first, my Lady. Don't make this a suicide."
Diana didn't answer at once. The hearth crackled between them, the flames painting her face in shades of gold and shadow. Her eyes were cold, calm, and utterly resolved.
"I have all the forces I need," she said finally.
Her gaze slid to Kallus and Benji. Both stood near the far wall, their armor streaked with ash and rain from the battle at Kolma. The Red Jaguar insignia—a crimson feline's head—was half-scorched on Kallus's shoulder plate. He caught her look, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and turned toward the shuttered window that faced the governor's hilltop estate.
"Another fight," Kallus said, rolling his shoulders as if testing the air for the clash to come. "Man, am I glad I came here. Let Ashborn drown in his negotiation attempts with the aristocrats. Here? Looks like we'll be doing some proper ass-kicking."
Benji barked a laugh behind him and spat into the fire. The grin on his face was the sort of grin that smelled of trouble and victory both.
The Ashborn.
Diana had heard plenty about him from Kallus—the Red Jaguar's newest addition, fierce in battle and louder in stories. And if even half of what Kallus said was true, then the rumors carried weight. A mercenary who was known for slaying monsters and saving villages.
She found herself curious. She would very much like to meet him one day, to see for herself whether the legend matched the man.
But that day wasn't now.
For now, she had to deal with this mess—the corruption festering in Leto, the governor who had sold his province to the Iron Guild, and the storm she was about to unleash upon them all.
Tonight, there was only the governor, his foundry, and the ledger stamped with his seal.
Diana rose, the movement carrying the settled weight of command. "At first light," she said, voice flat, "we go to the governor. No more delay." She set her spear against the table; the metal glanced in the firelight.
Eudoro ground his teeth and said nothing more. Kallus and Benji moved to their gear, eager and dangerous in equal measure. The others readied themselves in quiet, the room filling with the small, precise noises of preparation: leather tightened, blades checked, pouches secured.
Outside, the city celebrated beneath banners that fluttered like bright lies. Inside, in the low glow of the hearth, Diana strapped the satchel to her shoulder and looked once at the scattered ledgers. The Ashborn could wait. This was a reckoning of another kind.