Sorrow and Change

The cold night wind howled past them as Arasha and her assembled team rode hard through the western pines, cloaks billowing, hooves thundering over damp earth. 

No one spoke—the silence was sacred, a pact between them all. 

They were soldiers, knights, medics, and awakened—bound by duty and the grief of what they had seen.

At the foot of a starlit ridge, they found them: two clerics adorned in white-gold raiment and a group of four Divine Seekers, their weapons infused with holy light, already waiting at the meeting point. One of the clerics bowed deeply as Arasha dismounted.

"Commander Arasha. The trail is active," she said grimly. "But it runs deep—far deeper than we feared."

Sir Alvin had sent only his best, and Arasha wasted no time. "Lead the way."

The raid was swift, brutal, and efficient. 

The cult had turned the once-grand mansion into a prison of horrors—cells with magical suppressants, runes etched into bones, evidence of failed fusions between awakened and monsters. 

The team found journals, bloody rituals, and sacrificed children—each one carrying faint traces of divine blessing.

Arasha personally burned the estate down after the last of the survivors were evacuated.

It was a grotesque irony. A chapel corrupted into a hub of dark worship. 

As Kane fought through walls of mutated awakened, his power blazing, Arasha led a strike team through catacombs soaked in blood.

They found villagers who had once been declared "missing." Twisted, hollow-eyed, and unrecognizable. 

Some begged for death. 

Some attacked. 

Arasha gave them peace, her blade never trembling.

When they emerged into the night, Leta had to physically pull Arasha from kneeling over the last body—tears unshed, fists clenched.

****

The further they delved, the more widespread the rot appeared.

Cassian's informants—embedded deep in noble houses and black markets—sent scroll after scroll via enchanted courier hawks. Each contained locations, diagrams, and intercepted codes.

"The cult has agents in three major duchies. They have holdings in merchant banks and dark pacts with rogue arcanists. They are no longer hiding. They're preparing something." – Cassian

"A fortified town in the eastern reach. Beneath it, a sanctum corrupted with unholy ley-lines. We'll meet you there." – Kane

"I've rerouted funds through three neutral fronts. Whatever you need, consider it handled. And Arasha… eat something." – Valmira

****

Despite the constant battle and movement, every awakened one they failed to save left a scar on Arasha's soul. 

She never let anyone else handle the killing blow—she refused to place that burden on others.

And the awakened who fell—be they desperate teenagers or broken warriors—always had the same look when they died: Why didn't you come sooner?

One night, after purging a hideout that had once been a school for gifted orphans turned experiment lab, Arasha stood over the smoldering ruins.

Leta approached, blood-smeared and weary, holding out a flask.

"You don't talk about them," Leta said softly. "The ones you cut down."

Arasha didn't look away from the embers. "Because I remember every one of their faces."

Kane arrived moments later, his cloak torn, his expression drawn. 

He didn't speak. He simply took a step closer, his presence a quiet anchor. 

Cassian's message arrived on the wind—another location, another purge.

And Arasha, with the weight of an entire kingdom on her shoulders and sorrow burning behind her eyes, nodded grimly.

"There's no end until we find their families. Until we stop this at the root."

The hunt continued.

****

While the fields of war smoldered with the remains of cult strongholds, another fire began to burn—this time within the marbled halls of the capital.

The nobles, who once smiled behind fans and goblets, now gathered behind closed doors, whispers sharpening into venomous plans. The royal court, ever fragile, wavered in uncertainty. 

The people sang Arasha's name. 

They whispered prayers to her more than to the crown.

That, more than anything, stoked fear.

"She commands awakened. She defies orders. She executes without trial. She has too much power."

They did not see her relentless pursuit of the cult, her exhaustion, the bodies she buried with her own hands. 

They saw only what they wanted: a threat wrapped in grace and iron.

Once again, 

Petitions were raised.

Accusations were whispered loudly in the Assembly.

"The Commander slaughters awakened indiscriminately."

"She builds sanctuaries. Militarized, funded by foreign gold. What allegiance does she truly have?"

Even the Crown hesitated.

But Arasha did not come to defend herself.

She was on the road—sword drawn, eyes weary, tracking the last known cell of the cult who held a village family hostage.

Instead, two figures walked into the lion's den draped in velvet and fury.

Duke Lionel of the North, and the Duchess, his wife.

The doors slammed open.

All rose for them, unsure whether in fear or awe. Duke Lionel did not bow.

"Your Majesties. Lords and Ladies of the Court," he began, his voice thunderclap and command, "you wish to condemn a woman for killing those she could no longer save, while you sip your wines and turn your eyes from the families begging for salvation."

The Duchess's eyes were cold fire as she laid scrolls upon scrolls on the center table—evidence of the cult's infiltration into noble houses, into city councils, into guilds once backed by the court.

"Arasha does the work none of you dared touch. She bleeds where you posture."

A murmur rippled. Some turned pale. Others sneered.

"But she grows too powerful!" one noble spat.

"And you grow too idle," Duke Lionel retorted. "If power wielded to protect the weak unsettles you, perhaps it is not Arasha who needs to answer for her actions."

The King opened his mouth to speak—but the Queen lifted a hand. Calm. Measured. And yet there was a visible shiver of shame as she turned toward the evidence compiled. She said only one thing:

"Let it be recorded. Commander Arasha of the Scion Order has acted with loyalty to this realm beyond question. This court is adjourned."

The court was silenced. The nobles shamed. A few slunk out, cowed. Others, enraged in silence, retreated to their webs.

And in a quiet moment outside the capital balcony, Duke Lionel stood beside his wife, watching the sunset. He turned to her.

"She fights so hard."

"She always has," she replied. "And we won't let her fall nor be tarnished." 

****

In a ruined fortress near the borderlands, Arasha cut down the last cultist before the portal collapsed. Blood stained her boots, grief her shoulders.

Kane found her later, silent. She hadn't heard the court's decision yet.

"You're still standing," Kane said quietly.

Arasha looked up, voice hoarse. "Barely."

Kane placed a hand over hers. "Then we'll stand with you."

****

The ruins were cold. The scent of blood clung to the stones like an old curse. 

Moonlight poured like silver water across the wreckage of what was once a hidden village—one of many that the cult had taken, hidden away from the world's eyes, turned into sites of nightmares.

Arasha knelt in the dirt, her hands trembling as she covered what was left of a child's remains with her cloak.

The family had been too late. Or she had been too late.

Most were already dead—fed to the monsters, their bodies offered to the riftspawn in grotesque rituals. 

Others had been twisted into mockeries of their former selves, minds shattered by experiments and eldritch rituals. 

Some wept silently, eyes glassy and distant. 

Some screamed at invisible horrors. And some… begged her to end it.

Arasha had drawn her sword, and one by one, gave them mercy.

She did not cry. She did not flinch. But something inside her fractured and quietly bled.

She didn't return to her quarters. She worked, she gave orders, she sorted reports—without sleep, without rest.

Kane watched. He said nothing, not yet. But the haunted look in her amber eyes—dull, unfocused, voided—made his chest ache with helpless rage.

That night, under the pale moonlight, Kane walked into the training yard with two wooden swords.

He found her standing alone by the old chapel ruins, surrounded by silence.

"Arasha."

She didn't turn.

"You need to let it out."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." His voice was sharper now, but not cruel. "You keep moving like the world will end if you stop. Like—if you stop—you'll feel it all."

Still no answer.

Kane threw one of the wooden swords at her feet. "Then fight me."

Her eyes finally lifted. Dull. Hollow.

Kane stepped closer. "Fight me, Arasha. You're bottling it up, and it's killing you. You blame yourself for every death. Every failure. You carry them all alone, don't you? Then swing. Hit me. Scream if you must."

She picked up the sword.

The first blow was slow. Then faster. Harder.

Kane blocked, parried, didn't strike back.

"You promised them," she choked, striking again. "I promised them they'd be safe."

"I know."

She screamed as she struck again. A sound not of rage—but despair.

"I killed them. With my own hands."

Kane dropped his sword. He caught her next swing—and then her.

She broke.

Sobs tore from her chest as she collapsed into him, the sword falling forgotten in the grass.

He held her tightly, one hand behind her head, the other steady on her back. "You did what no one else had the strength to do," he whispered. "You gave them mercy. You gave them what little peace was left."

She clung to him, like a soldier clinging to a sword after battle.

"I don't want to break, Kane."

"Then lean on me. I'll hold the pieces until you're ready."

They sat in the courtyard under the stars. Arasha's head rested on Kane's shoulder, her eyes half-lidded but finally at peace.

"I'm tired."

"I know," Kane murmured. "But you're not alone. Not now. Not ever again."

And for once, Arasha let herself believe him.

****

The call came just after dawn, as the skies above the Order's base shifted with that pale light caught between night and day. 

Arasha stood alone on the battlements, still cloaked in the emotional bruises of the night before, when Cassian's voice cut through the communicator with a sharpness that roused her like a sword unsheathing.

"Commander Arasha," his voice was strained, rushed. "It's the central warehouse—one of the main rifts opened inside it. Half my people are evacuating, but the supplies meant for your Order are in danger. I can't afford to mobilize too much without compromising the city. I need you."

Arasha didn't hesitate. She didn't pause to alert Garran or wait for approval.

"Send a message to the Order," she instructed swiftly. "Tell them I've gone ahead."

And with that, she activated the teleportation talisman and vanished in a swirl of light and wind.

The moment she arrived, the scent of sulfur, smoke, and blood overwhelmed her senses. 

What was once an organized stockpile had turned into a battlefield. 

Wooden crates were splintered, and fire licked the beams of the ceiling. 

Riftspawn crawled from the pulsing maw of space itself—twisted beasts unlike anything she'd faced before. 

Their bodies shimmered with unstable aether and grotesque limbs, half-born of nightmare.

She didn't wait.

With sword drawn and shield pulsing with her sigil, Arasha charged forward, each strike precise, deadly, unrelenting.

Her blessing once again searing through her skin, her strength reaching its peak. But it wasn't enough.

The largest of the riftspawn—newly evolved, too intelligent—snarled through a maw that dripped black ichor, its voice whispering words that bent reality.

"Chosen... your flame flickers... will you be able to save or break first?"

Time seemed to slow.

The world dimmed at the edges.

Something deep—ancient, buried within her soul—answered.

A power not of the divine, not of the rift, but something older. Something that had waited. Watching.

"For your sacrifice, then and now... I offer you power. Take it. Let the future live."

Arasha felt it, like a second heartbeat—this presence, neither cruel nor kind. Just... present. She knew the risk. She knew the taint of unearned gifts.

But she also knew the stakes. But she needed power now.

Her answer was simple. 

Yes.

The shift was instant.

Her body ignited—not in fire, but in a light so pure it cast back the chaos. 

A halo, ragged with the edges of shadow and flame, formed at her back. 

Her sword crackled with energy not her own, and her strikes sang with resonance beyond mortal steel.

The warehouse trembled as she clashed with the evolved spawn—now equal in might.

The battle was long, ruthless.

And when the final strike fell, the rift closed in on itself with a howl—swallowed back into silence.

Cassian arrived moments later with reinforcements—only to find Arasha standing alone amidst the broken remains of the battle, blood-splattered, glowing faintly, her expression unreadable.

"You... you closed it alone?" he breathed, awe and concern mingling.

"Yes," she answered, voice quiet. "We can't afford delays. Not anymore."

Cassian frowned as he stepped closer. "What did you do, Commander?"

Unease and a feeling of something off bothered Cassian. His instinct something had changed, but what? he had no idea. 

She didn't look at him.

"I did what was needed."

Her eyes glowed faintly, and the golden sigils along her armor pulsed with unfamiliar light.

Cassian opened his mouth—then closed it.

He knew. She had accepted something beyond their understanding.

But she's alive.

And for now... that would have to be enough.