Chapter 13: The Storm Unleashed

The first explosion ripped through the silence like a violent exhalation from the gods.

Kieran barely had time to shield his eyes before the shockwave hit. A wall of dust and debris rushed forward, knocking soldiers off their feet. The air filled with a deafening crack, followed by the groan of iron snapping under impossible force.

The outer gates of the Spire had fallen.

Shouts rose in the streets—desperate, panicked. From his vantage point on a crumbling balcony, Kieran watched the massive doors tilt inward, warping as if unseen hands twisted the metal like parchment. Then, they collapsed.

Through the dust-choked breach, they came.

The Wraithborns.

Not as he had seen them before—not mindless, shambling husks, but something far worse. They moved with purpose, with intelligence, their glowing eyes cutting through the storm's fading haze. The first ones through the breach wore armor, scavenged from the dead or twisted into something grotesque. And at their head, a towering figure—one that moved with the precision of a soldier.

A leader.

They were evolving.

Below, the Stormguard fought to hold the line. Swords clashed against clawed hands, steel met corrupted flesh. The defenders fought valiantly, but they were unprepared. The Spire had spent centuries believing the storm would protect them.

Now, their walls had crumbled. Now, their nightmares walked among them.

"Kieran!"

He turned just as Elias shoved past a fleeing group of civilians, Rhea at his side. Her daggers dripped with blackened blood, her expression grim.

"We have to move," Elias panted. "The gates are gone."

"Not yet," Kieran said, his hands clenching.

Elias cursed. "You saw them. That's not a skirmish. That's an execution, you stupid incel."

He wasn't wrong. Even now, the first line of Stormguards were being torn apart, their weapons barely slowing the advance. The Wraithborns fought with unnatural speed, their bodies shifting between shadow and flesh, slipping past defenses before striking with razor-sharp claws.

Kieran's grip tightened on his sword.

Then, he saw them—beyond the mass of creatures pouring into the city, a dark figure stood atop the rubble of the ruined gates.

A chill ran through him.

"Who is that?" Rhea asked, following his gaze.

Kieran didn't answer. He already knew.

The Wraithborn's general lifted one hand. The creatures at the front lines froze, their heads snapping toward him.

A silent command.

Then, they moved as one.

In an instant, the chaotic assault turned into a calculated slaughter. The Wraithborns ignored the fleeing civilians and went straight for the city's defensive points.

They were not just attacking, Kieran realized. They're dismantling.

Rhea hissed through her teeth. "They're targeting the defenses."

Elias swore under his breath. "We're losing ground. Fast."

A distant horn echoed through the streets—the inner city calling for retreat.

Kieran's jaw tightened. "We can't just leave them to die."

"If we stay, we die too," Elias shot back. "And if we die, who's left to stop them?"

Kieran turned back toward the battlefield. The Stormguards were breaking. He caught sight of Vaelen Strake, locked in brutal combat, his blade carving through Wraithborn flesh. But even he was faltering.

They were outmatched.

Outnumbered.

And somewhere in the dark, the Wraith King watched.

The storm had broken.

And the Spire was falling.

The Spire was dying.

Kieran ran through the smoke-choked streets, his boots striking against shattered stone. Around him, the city burned—not from flame, but from ruin. Buildings crumbled beneath the weight of battle, the once-impenetrable walls now nothing more than wreckage. The cries of the wounded mixed with the clash of steel, and above it all, the distant wail of the storm's unraveling echoed like a funeral dirge.

Ahead, at the base of the grand bastion, Vaelen Strake stood alone.

His once-pristine armor was streaked with blackened blood, a deep gash torn across his shoulder. His breath came ragged, but his blade never wavered. Around him, a ring of Wraithborns circled like wolves, their glowing eyes fixed on their prey.

Kieran didn't hesitate.

"Strake!" he shouted, vaulting over a broken pillar. A Wraithborn attacked—Kieran ducked, twisted, and drove his blade upward, feeling the sickening crack as it pierced through its twisted bone.

Strake barely spared him a glance. "You should have run, boy." His voice was rough and weary.

Kieran stepped beside him, raising his sword. "Not my style."

Strake exhaled, a rough sound that might have been a bitter laugh. "Then stand with me. If we fall, we fall fighting."

The Wraithborn struck.

Kieran moved instinctively, dodging a swipe of shadowed claws, his blade carving into corrupted flesh. The creatures moved with a terrifying grace, their bodies shifting in and out of solidity, as if the storm itself wove them from darkness.

Strake fought like a man possessed. Every swing of his blade was precise, brutal. His gauntlet flared, arcs of energy crackling from his fists as he sent two Wraithborn sprawling. Yet even he was slowing.

Kieran parried a strike and kicked his attacker back. "We have to fall back—"

Strake didn't listen.

Instead, he turned, his gaze locking onto something beyond the fight. His expression hardened.

Kieran followed his stare—and felt his blood run cold.

Standing at the far end of the ruined street, watching them with piercing, ice-blue eyes, was a figure clad in dark armor.

The Wraithborn General.

The other creatures halted, withdrawing like a tide obeying its master.

The figure stepped forward. His presence alone felt unnatural—the air grew heavier, the very shadows seemed to bend toward him.

"Vaelen Strake."

The voice was deep, but wrong—as if it echoed from somewhere beyond the storm.

Strake's grip on his sword tightened. "I should have known they'd send you."

Kieran's pulse pounded. "Who is he?"

Strake didn't answer. But Kieran could see it now—the tension in his stance, the way his knuckles whitened around his hilt.

He knew this man.

The Wraithborn general inclined his head. "You still fight for them. After all this time."

Strake spat blood onto the ground. "I fight for the Spire."

A cold smile. "Then you fight for a lie."

In a blur, the general moved.

Strake barely had time to block. Their blades met with a sound like thunder, a shockwave rippling outward from the force of the clash. Sparks flared as steel grated against steel, and for the first time in his life, Kieran saw something he never thought possible—

Vaelen Strake was losing.

The Wraithborn general moved like a shadow given form, his strikes precise, relentless. Strake parried one blow, two—but the third slipped through his guard.

The general's blade sank deep into his side.

Strake staggered. Blood spilled over the metal of his gauntlet.

"No!" Kieran lunged forward, but a Wraithborn caught him mid-step, slamming him against the rubble.

The general twisted the blade.

Strake's face contorted—but he did not scream. He gritted his teeth, forcing his body to move, to fight, even as his strength bled out onto the stone.

"You were one of us once," the general murmured. "You should have joined us."

Strake exhaled, his breath shuddering. "Never."

The general's eyes flickered—almost like regret. Then he ripped the blade free.

Strake collapsed to his knees.

The battlefield was silent.

Kieran roared, breaking free of his captor. His sword sang through the air—but the general was already gone. The shadows swallowed him whole, and the Wraithborn melted back into the streets.

Only Kieran and Strake remained.

Kieran fell to his knees beside him, gripping his shoulders. "Hold on. We'll find a healer—"

Strake caught his wrist. His gaze was sharp despite the pain. "No time."

Kieran shook his head. "Don't say that. You're Vaelen Strake, the Stormguard Commander."

Strake's lips twitched. "Not anymore." His grip tightened. "Listen to me, boy. The Spire… is lost. But the fight isn't over."

Kieran swallowed hard. "What do I do?"

Strake's breathing grew shallower. "You already know."

A ragged exhale.

Then, Vaelen Strake—the last true Stormguard—was still.

Kieran didn't move.

The city burned around him. The Wraithborn pressed forward. The storm howled, its fury unmatched.

And Kieran felt something inside him fracture.

Strake had believed in the Spire. He had fought, bled, died for it.

And now, it had betrayed him.

Kieran rose, his hands curled into fists.

The storm was breaking.

And soon, the Spire would fall.

Kieran moved through the chaos, his body aching from the battle outside the walls. His tunic was torn, his blade slick with Wraithborn ichor, but none of that mattered now. He had seen Vaelen Strake fall. He had felt his final breath.

And now, Kieran was here.

The Council Chamber stood untouched, its towering walls of obsidian and glass casting a stark contrast against the destruction outside. Guards flanked the entrance, their polished armor gleaming.

They weren't fighting the Wraithborns.

They were guarding the Council.

Kieran pushed forward, his boots echoing against the marble floor. Elias and Rhea followed close behind, their faces set in grim determination.

The heavy doors groaned as they swung open.

Inside, the High Council sat in their gilded seats, their robes pristine, their faces calm. As if nothing was happening.

As if the city wasn't burning.

"Kieran," came a smooth, practiced voice.

High Chancellor Alden sat at the head of the chamber, his silver hair neatly combed, his hands folded in front of him. Around him, the other council members whispered, their expressions a mixture of intrigue and disdain.

Kieran stopped at the center of the hall, breathing hard. His blood-streaked hands curled into fists.

"You need to evacuate the Spire," he said, his voice sharp. "The Wraithborns are inside the walls. Strake is dead."

The chamber remained eerily silent.

Alden tilted his head. "And?"

Kieran blinked. His heart pounded. "And? That's all you have to say?"

Another council member, Lady Ceryn, tapped her fingers on the arm of her seat. "This is an old song, boy. The Spire has withstood countless assaults over the centuries. This is no different."

Kieran took a step forward, fury boiling in his chest. "It is different. The storm is gone. The gates have fallen. Strake died fighting because he still believed in this place. He still believed in you."

Alden sighed. "Strake was a soldier. He knew his purpose."

Kieran's stared at them—these people who had ruled his home, who had sat in these very seats while sending others to die.

And he understood.

They were always merciless.

"You never planned to save the Spire," he said, his voice quieter now, but no less dangerous. "You knew the storm wouldn't last. You knew the Wraithborns would come. You knew about Vareth."

The murmurs stopped.

Alden's gaze darkened. "Careful, boy."

Kieran laughed, though there was no humor in it. "That's what this has always been about, hasn't it? You let the storm hold back the world, hiding up here in your perfect tower, thinking it made you gods. But you're not. You're cowards."

The room chilled.

Alden slowly stood. "You are speaking dangerously, Kieran. Be mindful of your words."

Kieran's fingers tightened around his blade. He should have been afraid. The guards at the doors shifted, their hands hovering over their weapons. Elias tensed beside him, Rhea's fingers inching toward her daggers.

But Kieran wasn't afraid.

He was angry.

"My place?" he echoed. "I was out there, bleeding for this city. Strake died for this city. And you—you're sitting here waiting for the storm to swallow the truth."

Alden's lips pressed into a thin line. "The Spire will endure. The Wraithborns are a threat, yes, but we will outlast them, as we always have."

Kieran took another step forward. "You can't outlast them. They aren't just mindless creatures. They have a leader. A general. A man you once called your own."

That got their attention.

"Their general was a Stormguard once," Kieran continued. "One of yours. And he knows the truth about this city."

Then, Alden sighed, shaking his head as if Kieran were a child who had strayed too far. "You were always too reckless."

He lifted his hand.

The doors slammed shut.

Guards surged forward.

Kieran spun, reaching for his sword—but Elias grabbed his arm. "Kieran—don't."

Alden's voice was calm. Too calm. "I will give you one chance, Kieran. Swear your loyalty to the Council. Say nothing of what you've learned. Help us restore order."

Kieran stared at him. At the Council. At the cold, dead eyes of the people who had already decided his fate.

They weren't asking. They were demanding.

"Or?" Kieran asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alden's expression didn't change. "Or you will be executed."

Elias inhaled sharply beside him. Rhea's eyes widened, darting toward the guards closing in around them.

Kieran exhaled.

And then, he smiled.

It wasn't a pleasant smile. It was bitter—because suddenly, everything made sense.

The Council didn't fear the Wraithborns.

They feared the truth.

He took one last step forward, leaning in close enough to see the unease in Alden's gaze.

"I'd rather die standing than kneel to a liar."

Alden's face hardened. "So be it."

The guards lunged.

Elias drew his blade. Rhea's daggers flashed.

And the chamber erupted into chaos, exploding into violence.

Kieran barely had time to raise his sword before the first guard came at him. He sidestepped, deflecting the strike and driving his elbow into the man's ribs. Elias and Rhea were already moving, their weapons a blur of steel and shadow.

A guard lunged at Rhea, but she ducked, her dagger slicing a clean, precise line across his throat. He fell, choking, as she turned to face another. Elias, taller and stronger, used brute force—he slammed his opponent into the marble wall, his sword piercing through armor.

Kieran barely managed to parry a second attack when he heard Alden's voice cut through the chaos.

"Seal the chamber. Do not let them escape!"

The massive doors groaned, guards rushing to barricade them.

Kieran's heart pounded. They were being trapped.

He met Elias's gaze. No words needed. They had to move.

Elias grabbed one of the fallen guards' crossbows and fired. The bolt struck the man closing the doors, sending him staggering back.

Kieran surged forward, his blade flashing as he cut down another guard. The smell of blood filled the air. The doors were closing fast.

"Rhea, now!" Elias shouted.

Rhea dropped low, slamming a dagger into the mechanism of the doors—jamming them open just before they could shut.

Kieran didn't hesitate. He shoved through, leading the others into the outer hall.

They ran.

Behind them, the sound of pursuit grew. Shouts of treason. Of orders to kill them on sight.

As they rushed into the open streets, Kieran stopped short.

The Spire was not as they had left it.

The city was splitting apart.

Fires burned along the upper terraces, plumes of smoke curling into the sky. Citizens fled through the streets, panic in their eyes. But what sent a shiver down Kieran's spine was the fighting.

Not against the Wraithborn.

Against each other.

Groups of soldiers clashed with Stormguards who had abandoned their posts. Some civilians—those who had long distrusted the Council—had taken up weapons against the guards. The city was turning on itself.

Kieran turned to Elias and Rhea, his breath heavy. "This isn't just an escape. This is a coup."

Rhea wiped blood from her blade. "The Council tried to have you executed in front of their own guards. Word was always going to spread."

Elias frowned. "People are fighting back."

Kieran looked to the horizon. Beyond the Spire's outer walls, the storm had nearly collapsed. The sky churned black and violet, unnatural light flickering where the last remnants of the barrier struggled to hold.

And beyond it, werethe Wraithborns.

A vast, shifting mass of shadowed figures, their eyes burning silver. They did not rush forward like a mindless horde. They waited.

Like wolves at the edge of a dying fire.

"They know," Kieran murmured.

Elias turned to him. "What?"

"The Wraithborns," Kieran said. "They're watching us fight each other. They know the Spire is already falling apart."

Elias's face hardened.

Footsteps pounded against the stone behind them.

Kieran turned—just in time to see more soldiers rounding the street, weapons drawn.

At the front was Captain Dain.

Kieran had trained under him once. A hardened Stormguard, loyal to the Spire's law. His face was a mask of stone.

"Kieran Voss." His voice carried over the din. "By order of the High Council, you are under arrest for treason against the Spire."

Kieran tightened his grip on his sword. "And what of the Council's treason?"

Dain hesitated, just a second.

Rhea caught it immediately. "You know what they did. You know they let the storm collapse, they're too busy protecting themselves to stop it."

Dain didn't lower his blade, but his jaw clenched.

Kieran took a step forward, his voice low but firm. "You have to choose, Dain. You can stand with them, or you can stand with the people who still want to save this city."

The silence stretched.

And then—

Dain raised his hand.

His soldiers behind him hesitated.

Slowly, painfully, Dain lowered his sword.

"The Council doesn't speak for all of us," he muttered.

Kieran exhaled.

The Spire was dividing.

The Council's control was slipping.

And with the storm breaking, they were out of time.

Kieran looked toward the walls—toward the coming darkness...