Echoes Between Battles
The world outside Arkhelm was still burning, but within its walls, the tempo of life had slowed. For the first time in a long time, the guns were silent. The sky, once thick with glider smoke, now bore birds. The fractured elite force known as T.E.R.O.S.A had lost over seventy percent of its unit, and in response, the High Council issued an immediate ceasefire order. All offensive military operations would be paused for the next twelve months.
They called it a "strategic hiatus." The soldiers knew it for what it really was: survival.
Elian stood on the rooftop of the East Barracks, watching the sunrise through the tempered-glass dome. He wasn't in armor. Just a shirt, pants, and the necklace Sylvie had given him. His body had fully healed, but his soul bore scars that weren't as easily mended.
"You're up early," Lyra said, her voice soft for once.
He turned to see her approaching in a gray cloak, her hair tied in a lazy braid.
"Couldn't sleep," he replied.
"Still having the Vornyx dreams?"
He nodded, then shrugged. "That... and Thorne. Kael too. I still can't believe they turned."
Lyra leaned on the railing beside him. "They didn't just turn. They were broken."
A beat of silence passed.
"I miss them," Elian said.
"So do I," she whispered.
They stayed there until the light turned golden. When Elian laughed at a passing hawk nearly hitting the dome, Lyra looked at him—really looked at him. His eyes, so often filled with flames, were calm.
She hated the flutter in her chest.
---
Over the next few weeks, Arkhelm adjusted to peace. War factories converted into aid centers. Streets were cleaned. Children returned to outdoor schooling. But beneath the routine, the city braced itself.
Elian and Lyra were placed on reconstruction duty. They often found themselves at ruins, documenting old T.E.R.O.S.A sites, rescuing lost tech, helping new recruits train.
One evening, while salvaging a collapsed facility, they stumbled upon a sealed chamber.
"It's old," Elian muttered, brushing off ancient symbols.
"Too old," Lyra added. "It predates Arkhelm."
Inside, they discovered a giant mural—twelve figures painted in gold, each wielding a different elemental force. The Guardian Ancients.
At the center was one figure—faceless, broken, bleeding into all others.
"You think that's... the Prime Ancient?" Elian asked.
"No. I think it's the first hybrid."
The silence that followed was thick.
---
Back at HQ, Captain Sheane and Commander Strategos held a debriefing. Sheane had become quieter since the battle. Still sharp, still brave, but something about him had softened.
Strategos noticed.
He lingered after meetings, asking if she'd eaten. Shared his flask when her hands shook. Once, he stayed by her side for ten hours straight after she collapsed from exhaustion.
They never said anything.
But everyone else notice