The Preperation

The squad barely had time to process the near-death encounter before the world around them warped. The blinding rush of ether, the pull of spatial displacement—then, the biting cold of Minityrsa vanished, replaced by the damp, salt-kissed air of the Isle of Vigils. Their bodies staggered against the sudden change in pressure, exhaustion clawing at their limbs.

Before they could speak, Arcanos turned to Evengarde, his brow furrowed. "I'll take care of their injuries."

Evengarde nodded, his gaze lingering on the squad—on their cuts, their torn clothing, their shaken expressions. His presence alone was a silent reminder of the overwhelming gap in power between them and the prophets. Without another word, he vanished, Lao trailing after him.

Lao wasted no time in relaying everything he'd heard. The Arcana of Luminous. The forge of sin. The looming threat of Duke Erisia. Each revelation made Evengarde's expression darker, his fingers tightening over the documents Lao had brought. When the conversation ended, Evengarde's voice was firm, resolute.

"In three days, we move on Erisia."

The squad, battered yet still standing, found themselves thrown back into training almost immediately. No respite. No time to dwell on the suffocating presence of the prophets, or the terrifying sight of a man who could regenerate from annihilation.

Kouneli gritted his teeth, his fingers trembling as he tightened his grip around his weapon. He was still slow—too slow. His movements dragged compared to the seamless, brutal precision of their enemies.

Leo was the first to break the silence between them, his usual composure cracked with frustration. "It's not enough. No matter what we do, it won't be enough."

Velvet shot him a glare. "So what, we just give up?"

Leo exhaled sharply. "That's not what I said."

Kouneli wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Then let's stop talking and keep moving."

The night dragged on, their bodies moving through the motions of drills and sparring. Strikes met blocks, footwork faltered, and pain grounded them in their reality. No matter how strong they got, they were nothing before the first prophet's overwhelming might.

And yet, despite the certainty of their own insignificance, they trained until exhaustion claimed them. Until their bodies gave way and the world blurred into sleep.

Velvet dreamt.

Not of the present, nor of the horrors they had faced.

But of home.

The Lullaby Isles were alive with music, with song. The air thrummed with the hum of stringed instruments, the laughter of children harmonizing with the wind. The sky stretched wide, untainted by war, unbroken by sorrow.

They had grown up with sound as their language, with rhythm as their heartbeat. To be alive was to create, to express. And Velvet, small and bright-eyed, had loved every moment of it.

They danced through the streets barefoot, their fingers tracing the polished wood of a lute. Their father played for them often, and their mother would sing. Together, their melodies wove through the very soul of the Isles, a harmony that bound them all together.

For a time, it was enough.

For a time, it was perfect.

Then, the sky turned black.

The first scream tore through the melody like a discordant note, sharp and gut-wrenching. Then another. Then another.

Velvet turned, their breath hitching as they saw flames licking at the horizon, saw steel glint beneath the dying sun. Figures, armored and merciless, descended upon the Lullaby Isles like reapers. The Authority had come.

The slaughter was indiscriminate.

Men, women, children—none were spared. The streets, once filled with the echo of music, now choked with the sound of dying breaths, of bodies hitting the ground, of fire crackling over the remains of homes.

Velvet ran, their pulse hammering against their ribs. Their mind screamed for them to move faster, to find their parents, to wake up from this nightmare.

Then, they saw him.

Drallus Ehr.

The man at the forefront of the massacre. A towering figure, his armor drenched in fresh blood. His blade sung through flesh and bone as effortlessly as a conductor leading an orchestra. He moved with precision, with purpose.

He was enjoying this.

Velvet's breath came in ragged gasps. Their fingers trembled, useless, as they clutched the lute against their chest as if it could protect them. As if it could turn back time to before the Authority had come, before their world had shattered.

Drallus' eyes flicked toward them.

And then, the dream ended in blood.