The army that assembled at Shadowkeep's gates three days later was unlike anything the world had seen in centuries.
Werewolf packs marched alongside vampire clans. Fae warriors trained with demon mercenaries. Independent supernaturals of every species joined the cause, united by the threat of extinction.
Over two thousand strong, they prepared for the journey north.
Kieran stood on the battlements watching them, still adjusting to his enhanced senses. He could feel every person below—their determination, their fear, their hope pinned on him and Rhydian.
It was overwhelming and humbling.
"Quite a sight," Lyria commented, joining him. "I never thought I'd see this kind of cooperation. You and the King have done the impossible."
"We haven't won yet."
"No. But you've given them something to fight for. A future where all species can coexist." She smiled. "That's worth dying for."
"Let's try not dying, if possible."
"Agreed. Though I've written my will, just in case." Lyria's expression turned serious. "If I don't make it back—tell Dante he was right. About everything. He'll understand."
Kieran looked at her sharply. "You and Dante?"
"Complicated. Very complicated. Fae and werewolf—even more taboo than vampire and human in some circles." She shrugged. "But if the world's ending, I want him to know."
"You'll tell him yourself. After we win."
"I hope you're right."
The march began at dawn.
Two thousand soldiers moving north in organized columns, supply wagons trailing behind. Scouts ranged ahead, watching for threats. Mages maintained protective wards around the force.
Kieran rode at the front beside Rhydian, mounted on horses bred for war. Behind them came the commanders—Lyria, Dante, Nikolai, and representatives from each allied faction.
Lord Draven traveled separately with his forces, planning to converge on the Luminous Peaks from the east.
The journey would take ten days.
Ten days through increasingly hostile territory as they approached Zarath's prison.
Ten days to prepare mentally for what was coming.
That first night, camped in a valley, Kieran found himself unable to sleep despite exhaustion.
He wandered the camp perimeter, nodding to guards, feeling the collective anxiety through his moon fae senses. Everyone knew they were marching toward potential doom. Many wouldn't return.
"Can't sleep?" Dante's voice came from the darkness.
The werewolf commander stood watch, his eyes reflecting moonlight.
"Too much on my mind." Kieran joined him. "How do you do it? Lead people into battle knowing some won't come back?"
"By remembering why we're fighting. By honoring their sacrifice with victory." Dante was quiet for a moment. "And by accepting that death in battle is better than the alternative. If Zarath wins, everyone dies. At least this way, some of us might survive."
"Grim logic."
"But true." Dante's smile was sharp. "Besides, I've got something to live for now. Makes me fight harder."
"Lyria told me to tell you something. If she doesn't make it back."
"She'll make it back. I'll make sure of it." The growl in Dante's voice made it clear—anyone threatening Lyria would deal with him first. "We're both surviving this. We've wasted too many years pretending we didn't feel what we feel."
"Why did you wait?"
"Fear. Prejudice. Knowing that our people would never accept it." Dante sighed. "But watching you and Rhydian—how openly you love each other despite everything—it made me realize I was being a coward. When this is over, assuming we live, I'm telling her properly. No more hiding."
"Good. Life's too short not to."
"Especially when ancient evils are trying to eat us."
They shared a grim laugh.
Kieran left Dante to his watch and returned to his tent where Rhydian was waiting.
"Everything okay?" his mate asked.
"As okay as it can be." Kieran crawled into their shared bedroll. "Everyone's scared."
"So am I."
The admission was rare. Rhydian rarely showed fear, trained himself over centuries to project confidence even in the darkest moments.
"We're going to make it," Kieran said, echoing Rhydian's usual role. "Both of us. And everyone who follows us."
"You sound certain."
"I have to be. Otherwise the fear wins."
Rhydian pulled him close, and they lay together listening to the camp sounds outside—soldiers talking quietly, fires crackling, wolves howling in the distance.
"I love you," Rhydian murmured. "Whatever happens, I need you to know that. You made five hundred years worth living."
"I love you too. And we're both going to be around to say it for another five hundred years."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
They fell asleep entangled, the bond wrapped around them like armor.
Days 2-8: The Journey
Each day brought them closer to the Northern Wastes.
The landscape changed—from forests to rocky hills to barren plains where nothing grew. The air grew colder. The sky darker, even during midday.
And through it all, Kieran felt Zarath's presence growing stronger.
On the fourth day, they encountered their first sign of the entity's influence.
A village, completely empty. Not destroyed—just abandoned, as if every living soul had simply walked away.
Silvara examined the buildings, her expression grim. "Life drain. Zarath fed here. Consumed every living thing within miles."
"The people?" Nikolai asked.
"Gone. Not dead—consumed. Their life force eaten, their bodies dissolved. Nothing left but empty buildings."
Horror rippled through the army. This was what they were fighting—something that could erase entire communities from existence.
On the sixth day, they were attacked.
Not by Zarath directly, but by its spawn—shadow creatures birthed from the weakening seals. Mindless hunger given form, they poured from the darkness like a tide.
The battle was brutal but brief. Moon fae light and hybrid fury made short work of the lesser shadows. But they kept coming, wave after wave, testing their defenses.
Kieran stood at the front line, moonblades carving through shadow-flesh, his power blazing like a beacon. Every creature he destroyed screamed Zarath's rage.
"Is this all you've got?" he shouted at the darkness. "Send your spawn. They'll all burn."
A massive shadow-beast lunged at him, and Rhydian intercepted it mid-leap, tearing it apart with hybrid claws.
They fought back-to-back, perfectly synchronized, the bond letting them anticipate each other's movements.
Finally, the attack ceased.
Casualties were minimal—five wounded, none dead. But the message was clear.
Zarath knew they were coming.
And it was ready.
On the eighth day, they reached the foothills of the Luminous Peaks.
The mountains rose before them, impossibly tall, their peaks hidden in clouds that glowed with internal light. Ancient magic saturated the air—moon fae power from millennia past, still resonating.
"The temple is at the highest peak," Silvara said, pointing. "Two more days' climb. The path is treacherous, and only small groups can make it—maybe fifty at most."
"Then we split the force," Rhydian decided. "Main army camps here at the base. Elite units come with us to the temple."
"Fifty against Zarath's full power?" Dante shook his head. "Suicide."
"Fifty in a moon temple, amplified by ancient magic, led by a Manifestation-stage moon fae." Rhydian's voice was steel. "Better odds than facing it in open terrain."
That night, they selected who would make the final climb.
The strongest. The most skilled. Those most likely to survive the battle to come.
Kieran, Rhydian, Lyria, Dante, Nikolai, Silvara. Forty-four others—vampires, werewolves, fae, demons. The best of the best.
Everyone else would hold the base camp, preventing Zarath from fleeing if the temple assault failed.
Lord Draven arrived that evening with his forces, having navigated the eastern approaches.
He looked exhausted, his usually perfect appearance disheveled. "We were harried the whole way. Shadow spawn, corrupted wildlife, weather that tried to kill us. Zarath knows what we're planning."
"Can it stop us?"
"I don't know. But it's certainly going to try."
That night, the night before the final climb, the army held a ceremony.
Different traditions from different species, but all with the same purpose—honoring those who might die, celebrating those who might live, binding the survivors together.
Kieran and Rhydian stood at the center of it all, symbols of the unity they'd forged.
"Tomorrow, we climb," Rhydian addressed the army. "Fifty of us will face Zarath directly. The rest of you hold this position. Ensure nothing escapes. If we fail, you're the last line of defense."
"We won't fail," Kieran added, his voice carrying moon fae power that made it sound like prophecy. "We'll fight with everything we have. And we'll return victorious."
The army roared approval, thousands of voices united.
But Kieran felt the fear beneath it. Felt the certainty in so many minds that this was goodbye.
He pushed confidence through his moon fae connection, bolstering their courage, giving them hope to hold onto.
It was all he could do.
That night, alone in their tent, Kieran and Rhydian made love with desperate intensity.
They didn't speak of tomorrow. Didn't acknowledge the possibility that this might be their last night together.
They just felt—skin on skin, breath mingling, the bond blazing between them like a sun.
Afterward, wrapped in each other's arms, Rhydian finally spoke.
"If something happens to me—"
"No." Kieran pressed fingers to his lips. "We're not doing this. No goodbyes. No final words. We're both walking down that mountain alive."
"Kieran—"
"I said no. I won't accept any other outcome." Kieran's voice was fierce. "I didn't become moon fae, didn't reach Manifestation stage, didn't fall in love with you, just to lose you on some mountain. We're surviving this. Together."
Rhydian stared at him, then smiled—beautiful and broken and full of love.
"Together," he agreed.
"Always."
They fell asleep holding each other, the bond wrapped tight between them, refusing to let go.
Tomorrow, they'd climb.
Tomorrow, they'd reach the temple.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
But tonight, they had this.
And it was enough.