The wind howled at this altitude, thin and sharp as a blade's edge.
They soared through it like wraiths.
Dozens of dark silhouettes broke the night above the mountain ridges, gliding fast and silent beneath a veil of muffling enchantments. The moon was high, its light dimmed by wisps of transfigured cloud cover that had been conjured ahead of time to obscure the approach.
Broomsticks streaked through the sky in disciplined formations, each rider cloaked in spells of concealment and cold resistance. Their hands glowed faintly each gripping tightly to sleek handles charmed for maneuverability and speed.
Beside them flew another formation silent swordsmen riding through the air on enchanted katanas, their long robes cinched tightly to reduce drag. These warriors, mostly of East and Southeast Asian descent, kept low to the earth, hugging the terrain with breathtaking precision.
They were wind incarnate.
And they were hunting.
Far below, nestled in the broken ribs of a mountain cleft, a scattering of tents, black obelisks, and flickering divine wards marked the enemy's forward camp. The demons and angels below didn't yet know they were being watched.
"Mark."
A single word echoed from the tip of the formation to the back.
The strike began.
From above, a witch on a broom hurled down a crystalline potion containing a mixture much like a bomb, its core pulsing with barely contained energy. It struck the edge of the enemy camp and instantly shattered, exploding into dozens of jagged, metallic shards that tore through tents, talismans, and supply wards.
The camp howled with alarm.
But it was too late.
Dozens of spells rained from the sky. Bombardment charms, fire curses, wind shears, and spells that hit the earth like a quake, they all fell like a storm. The enemy scrambled, some demons leaping into the air to retaliate but they were met by steel.
The sword-riders sliced through the air with brutal grace. One glided just inches above the treetops, his blade trailing golden arcane light, and severed a divine warding pylon with a single horizontal sweep. Another flipped midair, hurling a magnetic burst that drew metallic anchors directly into the heart of the camp.
Boom.
Boom.
BOOM.
Each impact lit the ridge in flashes of white and red, turning night into a strobe of destruction.
From above, Morpheus's gaze never wavered.
He flew higher than the rest aloft a simple broom, cloaked in the night, his eyes tracking movement through. When he saw retaliatory runes activate below, he whispered something beneath his breath—
"Collapse."
A silent rune he'd embedded into one of the advance bombs detonated a delayed gravitational sinkhole, pulling half a dozen enemy structures inward into a flash implosion.
He turned.
"Retreat vectors. Now."
Even before the order fully echoed, the strike teams were already pivoting midair, breaking into retreat formations.
Sword-riders soared upward in synchronized loops, re-sheathing their blades into their back scabbards mid-flight. Broom riders peeled off like embers swept by wind, some already firing smoke bursts and decoys behind them to obscure the escape.
Below, the enemy camp was chaos. Screams echoed. Tents burned. A few angels lifted off to pursue, but only briefly—the attack had left their perimeter crippled, their command spells cut in half.
***
The cold stings harder the faster I go.
My knuckles are white on the broom handle, every muscle in my arms locked tight. The wind keeps tearing at my scarf, and the satchel over my back bounces harder with each dip and rise. I don't dare look down at the cliffs, the trees, the sheer drop. I just keep pushing forward.
The others peeled off to their designated paths, disappearing into the night like smoke. I stayed a second too long—just long enough to see that last pylon collapse, just long enough to fall behind.
And now I'm alone.
I tell myself it's fine. I'm not too far. The ridge ahead curves down into the approach. I'll be within the outer wards in less than a minute.
But then I feel it.
Warmth.
Not from the wind. Not from me.
It blooms behind me like a heatwave, slow at first, then pressing in—too deliberate, too unnatural.
My breath fogs as I glance over my shoulder.
At first, there's nothing.
Then light.
One. Two. Three. Four.
They shine like distant stars at first, but they're moving—arching through the sky behind me like streaks of fire. I blink hard.
Angels.
Shit.
I duck low, nearly horizontal on my broom. The cold air whips harder, needles into my eyes, but I don't stop. I can't.
They're chasing.
I don't know how many. I don't know why they picked me. But I can feel it in my spine—the pressure, the pull, the way the wind bends strangely behind me like reality itself is rippling from their presence.
They're faster than I thought.
Faster than me.
I throw my weight into a drop—dive under a cluster of trees, swerve through the ridgeline. Maybe I can lose them. Maybe if I hit the lower air they'll break formation—
A flash of gold streaks overhead. I feel the heat singe the tips of my boots.
"Damn it—!"
I roll, flipping sideways, skimming so low my knee brushes snow off a jutting rock. My broom jolts—hard—but holds steady. I draw my wand in my off-hand, aim it behind me, and fire blindly.
Crack—BOOM!
A burst of noise and flame erupts behind me, but it's just that—noise. They fly right through it.
They're not stopping.
I can see the faint shimmer of the shrine wards ahead now. Just barely. Glimmering like a silver dome. I need thirty seconds. Twenty.
I grit my teeth and push harder.
Just hold.
Just a little longer.
They're right behind me now I can hear their wings.
And one of them is whispering something.
It isn't words.
It's music.
And it wants to burn me alive.
I snap my head back and don't think.
"Bombarda Maxima!"
The wand jerks in my hand as I fling it toward the glowing pursuers. The spell erupts like thunder, and the night sky explodes behind me—red, orange, and white streaks lighting up the mountain ridge like a wildfire set loose in the heavens.
The shockwave knocks me forward.
I almost lose control.
My broom shudders violently beneath me, veering off-course from the concussive force, but I grip tighter and straighten out, cutting hard between two trees.
The glare from the blast fades behind me in flickering embers.
I don't know if I hit them.
I don't look back again.
I fly faster.
My whole body aches from the cold and the speed. My eyes are tearing up, my teeth chattering. Every twist of the air cuts across my cheeks like razors. I can barely breathe through the altitude and panic.
Then finally, I see it.
The outline of the temple.
Rising out of the mountains like some ancient sentinel. Carved stone. Warding flares. Watch torches circling in steady pulses.
Home.
I push myself harder, broom tilting forward until I'm barely a blur above the snow. Just a little farther.
I hit the outer perimeter and feel the wards ripple across my skin cold magic threading through the air to confirm my identity.
I slow down just enough not to crash.
Then I turn.
Breath heavy.
Heart pounding.
And—
They're gone.
No light. No wings. No golden blur. Just the night, and the stars, and the fading scent of burnt ozone.
I blink. Once. Twice.
I should feel relief. I should feel safe.
But I'm not.
Because the music—that whispering, maddening hum—is still playing.
Inside my head.
It's faint, but persistent, like something pressed just beyond my thoughts. Not loud. But there.
Soft.
Sweet.
Wrong.
I lower myself slowly toward the temple gates, and for the first time since the bombardment started, I feel a different kind of fear.
Not for my life.
But for my mind.