War is near

Aether lay gasping on the shattered street, each breath uneven. The ground around him was a wasteland, fractured by the violent outburst of power that had failed to hit Altan.

Glass from nearby skyscrapers lay scattered in gleaming shards, catching the dim, flickering light of broken holograms. A few of those holograms still functioned, their static-filled projections capturing images of Aether and Mirakos as a woman with brown hair assessed the scene.

In the distance, the church loomed.

In front of the gate, Azarias stood alone, his gaze trailing after the departing figure of Zephyros. The meeting had lasted no longer than an hour—half an hour, twenty minutes, give or take.

The place reverberated with a low hum as the thirty-four men continued their chant in unison. Their black robes shimmered briefly in the dim light before beginning to dissolve, their forms fading like mist. As they vanished, their garments transformed into white, leaving faint trails of light behind.

Zephyros stepped into his sleek plane, its metallic frame gleaming under the interior lights. His glittering blue outfit dimmed as the hatch sealed shut.

Azarias lingered for a moment, his lips curling into a faint smile.

"With every birth of an Illuminated, the Sages curse the odds. Praying the balance tilts against such a fate."

He chuckled softly to himself before exclaiming with sudden fervor, "What a city!"

The plane's engines roared to life. It vibrated with restrained power, like a bomb waiting to detonate.

Back on the ruined street, Aether stirred, forcing himself upright. His arm whined softly as he reached for Mirakos, who lay slumped nearby. People around them began murmuring, pictures once again being taken. They were practically famous at this point.

Mirakos groaned, his bruised and battered form trembling as he clutched his ears. "They're... murmuring," he hissed, his voice strained. "I can hear them. Too many voices."

Aether's eyes darted toward the small crowd gathering in the distance, their whispers growing louder. He placed a steadying hand on Mirakos's shoulder, his expression calm despite the chaos.

Overhead, the plane shot past—a blur of motion that rattled the ground below. Aether instinctively raised his prosthetic to shield his eyes from the blinding light reflecting off the craft.

The gleaming rays ricocheted off the skyscrapers' mirrored surfaces, creating a kaleidoscope of light that danced around them.

Mirakos clung to Aether's waist, his body twisting slightly to keep his balance. One hand gripped Aether's belt while the other shielded his eyes, mirroring Aether's stance.

Aether's expression remained steady, his sharp, gleaming eyes fixed on the horizon. The faintest flicker of understanding passed across his face. The fight with Altan had taught him something—something vital.

Inside the plane, Zephyros stood by a window, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watched the duo below.

"That's the aura I was feeling?" he muttered, one brow arched in faint surprise. "Such a young boy."

The plane shuddered before vanishing in a blur of energy, disappearing into the atmosphere in an instant.

Aether lowered his arm. The scattered light faded as quickly as it had come. For a moment, silence reigned over the broken cityscape. Then he glanced down at Mirakos, his voice calm and steady.

"You good?"

Mirakos exhaled heavily, his voice muffled against Aether's side, body trembling with barely contained shivers. "What does 'good' mean again?"

"Altan ran away..." Mirakos cursed as they began walking. The usual large Stem loomed eternal in their view, a silent witness to their conversation.

Aether's smile appeared like a crack in porcelain—beautiful and broken all at once.

For a split second, his eyes drained of light, becoming hollow pools that Mirakos caught before they could hide. Mirakos's body went rigid, a prey sensing a predator right in front of it. When he spoke, his voice carried a sing-song cheeriness that chilled the air: "He'll die, don't worry."

His shoulders quaked as a faint aura began to rise around him—sickly purple bleeding into venomous green, like bruised flesh turning gangrenous.

Rage clawed at his mind, desperately seeking escape—searching for someone, something to blame.

It grew beyond comprehension, reaching with phantom fingers for shadows, for targets, for purpose.

Each passing face became a vessel for his fury, each object a potential outlet for the storm within.

He buried it deep with a smile, but the realm's love felt like mockery, suffocating in its tenderness. The rage writhed beneath his skin, begging to be unleashed.

"I'm just a story," he whispered into the void between what was and what remains.

"A tale of tragedy, anguish, and despair," Aether thought, turning a corner. Vanishing.

In the alleyway, a towering neon screen flickered above the grime-slick walls, its glow casting warped shadows on puddles below. Frozen mid-frame was a paused moment from the Altan fight—Aether, airborne, hand in cloak trying to draw his sword, fury in his stance. A second later, the footage snapped forward: Aether sprawled on the ground, his blade skidding out of reach.

Zahra sprinted. Her glowing yellow eyes pierced the dim surroundings, analyzing everything—every detail, every potential escape route, flooding her mind with information.

Words.

The thought flickered as she darted through a spiraling staircase, her feet barely touching the ground. A constant buzz clawed at her senses from behind. Time stretched and slowed, every second elongating as though mocking her desperation.

She spotted it—a window. Without hesitation, she launched herself forward, crashing through the barrier. The brittle pane shattered around her in a spray of glittering shards, and the world twisted violently as she plummeted.

Above, the steady hum of a drone shadowed her fall, its camera whirring as it locked onto her. Far away, yet impossibly near, Valtieri watched everything unfold from the cold confines of his room in front of a massive monitor, each flickering frame of Zahra's escape feeding his fury.

She had stolen something.

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding audibly. The edges of his vision blurred with anger as his fist slammed down on the desk, cracking the polished surface.

"Azarias," he snarled, "mark my words—when I'm forced to kill her for this, I'll deliver her headless body right to the altar. By my name, the blood will stain the already bloodstained church, turning it into a monument of her folly."

With a guttural roar, he hurled his fist through the screen. Glass splintered under the impact, sparks flying as the monitor died, leaving him in suffocating darkness.

Zahra plummeted through the air, her limbs instinctively moving. Her arm shot out, her legs twisted, and she spun in midair.

Two creatures screamed past her, barely missing her by inches.

She landed hard on the rooftop of a nearby building, the impact sending shockwaves up her legs. A slight crack followed, then a sharp, suffocating grunt escaped her lips.

She stumbled forward, her ankle giving out beneath her, and collapsed to the ground.

The floor trembled. A shadow loomed over her.

Then—BOOM.

A foot crashed into the rooftop where she lay, shattering stone and steel in an explosion of force. A fiery shockwave erupted outward, obliterating every creature in the vicinity.

Blood spread, evaporating into the thin air. Zahra blinked through the haze, struggling to rise.

"Zahra! Are you okay?" A voice cut through the smoke, deep and commanding.

Her head whipped around. Through the dust, a figure emerged—Ondor. He strode forward, unbothered by the destruction around him, every step deliberate.

Zahra scowled, clutching her ankle. "Aren't you supposed to be guarding the Stem?" she shot back, her voice sharp despite the pain.

She reached into her satchel, pulling out a small, glimmering device—the object she'd stolen from Rolls-Worth during her escape. Without hesitation, she tossed it to him.

Ondor caught it mid-air, inspecting it briefly. "I get it," he said, almost amused. His tone shifted, though his eyes never left her. "Altan and Sara are ready. And you, Zahra... you're not part of the Draconic Hogoel. Your city—by far my favorite—is in shambles. Let me take you somewhere safe."

Ondor stood. His deeply tanned skin bore scars. Long, wild black hair cascaded down his back, a mane that swayed like a predator's in the heat of the hunt. Strands of his hair were adorned with beads and bone fragments. Animal hides draped across his shoulders and waist. A tattered twelve-eyed creature's pelt framed his broad shoulders, its fangs still visible. Around his wrists and ankles were leather bands and intricate carvings of ivory. A staff, as gnarled and unyielding as an ancient oak, rested in his calloused hands.

"Safe?" Zahra hissed, trying to stand. Her leg wobbled, and she bit down hard to stifle a groan.

"You're running from Rolls-Worth, aren't you?" Ondor continued, unfazed. He tilted his head back and inhaled deeply, as if he were breathing in the very essence of the battle raging across the city. "War is co—" Ondor began, but Zahra cut him off sharply.

Zahra's glare sharpened. "I'm not going," she said through gritted teeth, finally managing to steady herself.

Ondor didn't argue. Instead, his gaze shifted, drawn to the street below. "My little brother was here but a moment ago," he murmured. "And my sister too, playing with a boy..."

Confused, Zahra limped toward the edge of the building, following his line of sight.

Below, two figures moved through the streets—Aether and Mirakos. Aether's walk was confident, deliberate. Mirakos followed close behind, his face unreadable.

"Him?" Zahra blurted, her brow furrowing in disbelief. She turned back to Ondor, who hadn't moved. His expression was distant, as though seeing something far beyond the present.

Zahra's gaze snapped back to the street below. This time, Aether stopped mid-stride. Slowly, as if he could feel her eyes on him, he tilted his head upward. His piercing gaze locked onto hers. Mirakos followed his line of sight, his sharp eyes narrowing. A chill ran down Zahra's spine. Her breath hitched.

"Who are they...?" she whispered, her voice trembling. She hadn't meant for Ondor to hear, but he did.

"The dark one," Ondor said matter-of-factly, his voice laced with a hint of reverence. "Altan calls him the Son. Supposedly the child of some tour guide. The other one? Altan gave him a story skill—a disciple of sorts."

"What does that even mean?" Zahra pressed, her voice rising with frustration.

Ondor smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. "If you don't want to follow us, Zahra, then follow them. Altan wouldn't shut up about those two. He keeps calling them the 'Son and his Disciple.'"

"That's—" Zahra started, but the words caught in her throat.

"Confusing, I know." Ondor cut her off, his tone final. He lifted the object Zahra had thrown at him, giving it a quick wave. "Thanks for this," he said, his grin sharp and fleeting. Then, as if the air itself swallowed him, he was gone.

Zahra stared at the empty space where Ondor had been, her heart pounding. Slowly, she turned her gaze back to the street. Aether was still staring up at her, his expression unreadable.

And for the first time in four years of possessing her story skill, Zahra felt scared—even with the backing of "God."