The first two visions

Alpha Lyra and Alpha Dareth placed their hands on the pitted metal stand flanking the Glass. The air grew denser, colder, the silence deepening until I could hear the frantic drumbeat of my own heart in my ears. The swirling light within the Glass intensified, brightening from a cool moon-glow to a fierce, icy blue-white. It pulsed once, twice, like a slow, otherworldly heartbeat.

Around me, the entire Hall was utterly still. Every face, from the newly Bonded in their dark uniforms to the stern Betas and Gammas, even Cael sitting rigidly in front of us – all were transfixed, eyes wide and unblinking, locked onto the glowing sphere. Zale leaned forward slightly, his earlier tension forgotten, his expression one of raw awe mixed with something like hunger for understanding. Marco sat unnaturally still for once, his restless energy completely absorbed by the spectacle. Roan, beside me, was a statue, his gaze fixed with an intensity I'd rarely seen, even in battle. The collective focus was pressing down on me, demanding surrender to the vision.

Kaelum? The thought slipped out, a flicker of unease in the face of such silent, universal absorption. What is this? What's happening?

The response slammed into my mind, sharp and immediate, brooking no argument, "Look only into the Glass."

The command was absolute. I snapped my attention back to the sphere, pushing aside the sight of the entranced crowd just as the light within the Glass erupted.

Not outwards, but upwards, in a silent, blinding column that shot straight through the open roof into the indigo sky. For a single, heart-stopping moment, the entire Hall was bathed in stark, actinic light, bleaching the color from stone and faces alike.

The light didn't fade. Instead, it unfolded, filling the space above the Glass.

Then, I wasn't just watching. I was there.

It hit me all at once—darkness so thick it felt alive, cloying and suffocating, pressing in from every direction. Not night, but absence, the kind that gnaws at reason. Shapes moved within it—colossal, writhing things with jagged teeth like shards of broken obsidian and eyes that glowed with cold, alien malice. The Suckers. They twisted and undulated, unstable, grotesque, never settling into a single form. Around them, the world lay in ruins—skeletal trees reached like desperate hands into a bruised, starless sky, and mountains crumbled like rotting teeth. Slivers of light flickered weakly in the distance—human settlements, pitiful and small—besieged by crawling tendrils of shadow that slithered through the decay.

Every breath carried a stench so thick it clung to the throat—rot, sweet and spoiled, like fruit gone soft in a damp crypt. There was blood, sharp and metallic, and something scorched—stone and ozone, burned by some unnatural force. The air trembled with sound, chittering high and insectile, grinding into the nerves; distant roars that rumbled in the bones; the slick, wet sound of earth and rock being torn open. There were screams, too. Human screams. Raw and terrifyingly real. The kind that stripped the word hope of all meaning.

A weight pressed down, not physical, but suffocating—thick with despair, with the knowledge that whatever this place was, it wasn't meant to be survived. It seeped into the bones, into the blood. I felt small. Exposed. Hunted.

The vision plunged downward, into the hollow of a cavern where one of the dim lights flickered weakly. Fire cast long, nervous shadows on jagged walls. Figures huddled close—faces drawn tight with hunger and something worse, something permanent. Fear had etched itself into them. Their weapons were little more than desperate fragments—flint-tipped sticks, stones, bones. Outside, barely visible through a jagged crack, something slithered. A tendril, thick and glistening, slick with iridescent slime. It curled over rock with a nauseating squelch, inching forward.

A child whimpered, and the sound sliced through the thick air like a knife. The others recoiled, pressing back into the stone, their eyes wide and unblinking.

A movement caught their attention. Not from within the cave, but above it.

A shape stepped from the mist. Massive, fur dark as storm clouds, golden eyes burning bright and clear. A Volanema wolf. Its body was low, muscles coiled, teeth bared in a silent snarl. But it didn't look at the humans. It saw the thing creeping toward them. And it moved, silently, and with powerful steps it placed itself between the cave and the encroaching dark, unmoving. A growl built, deep and resonant, more felt than heard—raw defiance hurled straight into the maw of the devourer. A line had been drawn. And that line would not be crossed. 

Realisation slammed into me and I understood what was happening. I was watching the war through someone else's eyes. 

I knew the Volanema had stepped in to spare mankind, give them life and courage and power to fight against the dark, but to feel it, see it from my own eyes, borrowed eyes was something else. My respect for Kaelum's kind deepened further. 

The image shifted violently. Now I was running. Stumbling, really. Gasping for air that burned my lungs. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I was a scout, clad in ragged leathers, fleeing through a blighted forest of twisted, blackened trees. Panic – raw, metallic – clawed at a throat that wasn't mine. Lungs burned, each ragged gasp tasting of spoiled earth and ozone. Smaller, skittering shadows darted through the undergrowth – creatures born of the Sucker's corruption, all chitinous limbs, snapping mandibles, and glowing red eyes. They were gaining. One lunged, a blur of sharp darkness. I tripped, sprawling onto the damp, rotten leaves, the stench of decay filling my nostrils. I scrambled to turn, weapon lost, raising my arms in a futile gesture. The shadow-creature reared, a dripping stinger poised to strike.

A streak of russet fur exploded from the thicket beside me. A Volanema wolf, smaller than the first but radiating fierce power, slammed into the shadow-creature with bone-crunching force. Jaws snapped, tearing through chitin with sickening crunches. Dark ichor sprayed. The creature shrieked, a sound like tearing metal, before falling silent. The wolf stood over the twitching remains, its sides heaving, muzzle stained black. It turned its head, intelligent golden eyes locking onto mine – the scout's eyes – not with predatory hunger, but with a fierce, protective intensity. It nudged my shoulder with its massive head, a clear, insistent command, Get up. Move. Now.

I scrambled upright, sucking in shallow breaths. But I didn't flee blindly. I dropped low, pressing into the roots of a lightning-split oak, blistered hands trembling. The eyes I saw through scanned the terrain with desperate precision—Mapping Sucker movements. Relaying positions. Fungus-covered branches, sucking mud pits, the pause in chittering where something massive lay in ambush. I knew this land. My terror was laced with brutal discipline. 

Calloused fingers found the cracked bone whistle at my throat. Three soft bursts. "Heavy flanker, 50 paces south. Avoid the gully." The signal vanished into the gloom, meant for ears like mine. The burden on this chest wasn't just survival—it was others surviving.

One wrong step—one sound out of place—and the chittering horrors would find this body.

Then, the world dissolved again in a nauseating lurch.

The suffocating forest vanished, replaced by the claustrophobic, reeking gloom of a cave lit only by guttering tallow lamps. The stench hit like a physical blow – thick, sweet rot warring with the sharp tang of infection, vomit, and the metallic bite of fresh blood. Panic gave way to a grinding, soul-deep exhaustion. I was the healer.

My hands – stained dark with blood, pus, and the green smear of crushed herbs – moved with a desperate, ingrained rhythm, but they felt leaden. Kneeling on hard, damp stone slick with fluids, my focus was entirely on the ruin before me. A young man, little more than a boy, writhed weakly. His leg below the knee was a horror – crushed and mangled from some falling debris or Sucker attack, the flesh already an angry, mottled purple-black. Gangrene. The smell alone threatened to empty my stomach. His face was grey wax, sweat-slicked, his eyes rolled back, teeth chattering against the fever consuming him. His breath came in shallow, wet gasps, each one a rattle.

Around us, the cave echoed with misery. Low moans. Harsh, wet coughs. The choked sobs of a woman holding the hand of someone already gone cold. Makeshift pallets covered the uneven floor, each occupied by broken bodies – deep gashes oozing dark blood, limbs bent at impossible angles, faces swollen and bruised. The air hung heavy with the scent of fear-sweat and despair, mixed with the bitter aroma of the precious, dwindling herbs I crushed in my mortar.

My own arm throbbed, a shallow, stinging cut just above the elbow, hastily bound with a filthy strip of linen. I ignored it. The mortar held feverfew and goldenrod paste. Precious. Life-saving. Maybe. My gaze swept the cavern. So many needed it. The boy with the gangrene? A waste. The medicine wouldn't save the limb, maybe not even the boy. But the woman nearby, clutching her ribs where a Sucker claw had raked deep? The paste could fight the poison festering there, it might hold back the rot long enough for… for what? Hope was a scarce commodity here.

Life mattered. Every scrap of it. But choices were brutal. Who got the chance?

My stained fingers hovered over the mortar. Then, with a swift, decisive motion born of terrible necessity, I scooped the precious paste. Not for the boy. Not yet. I packed it deep into the woman's poisoned claw marks. She whimpered, her body tensing. "Hold her!" My voice was rough, cracked, but it cut through the low drone of suffering. Hands gripped the woman's shoulders.

The boy moaned, a sound of pure animal agony. My heart clenched. I dipped a filthy rag into the small clay jug – the last of the clean water. I washed the worst of the filth from his mangled leg, the cool water a brief shock against the fevered flesh. It was a gesture, little more. A comfort denied to others. The water was gone. The herbs were gone. The fight wasn't just against the Suckers outside; it was here, on this cold, bloody stone, against decay, despair, and the relentless arithmetic of triage. Every shallow breath drawn in this reeking cave was a fragile victory against the devouring dark. The weight of choosing who might live, knowing others would die because of that choice, pressed down until the cave walls seemed to close in.

The overwhelming stench of infection, the chorus of suffering, and the bitter taste of impossible decisions were the last sensations before the vision violently tore away. The phantom weight of the mortar, sticky with life and death, lingered on borrowed hands.

I could feel the desperation of the healer, her will to save everyone and everything. How she'd give a chance away at her life, just for someone else to live a little longer. My heart ached at the sight, a lone tear making its way down, unsure who it belonged to. 

*****

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