The days passed in a quiet, repetitive rhythm atop the summit, where the breathable air was thin and the world felt both vast and confining. Xin and Shun took turns conjuring the dome, a translucent barrier that shimmered above the jagged peaks, its faint glow a constant reminder of the fragile safety they'd carved from a fractured world.
Some days were spent hunting in the lower valleys, tracking elusive game through snow-dusted trails. Others were dedicated to training the volunteers—young, drained faces who showed promise with a blade or a bow. There were even days when Xin, despite his role as strategist, rolled up his sleeves to help prepare food or carry supplies to the mess hall, his hands dusted with flour like substance or aching from the weight of crates. Yet, despite the productive pace of their lives, each day began to feel heavier than the last. Grim, even. As though something unseen loomed on the horizon, casting a slow, creeping shadow over the summit.
Xin couldn't place it, but the feeling gnawed at the back of his mind like a whisper he couldn't quite catch. It lingered in the quiet moments—when the wind stilled, when the dome's hum faded, when the laughter of the volunteers grew distant. It was as if the mountain itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.
One morning, before the sun had fully risen, a sharp knock stirred Xin from sleep. A messenger stood at his door, her face taut with urgency. "Shun's summoned you," she said, her voice clipped. That alone was enough to pull him from his cot and into his armor the leather and thin steel fitting over his frame like a second skin. He followed her across the summit, the cold biting at his exposed skin as they moved deeper than he'd ever gone before.
They passed the familiar chambers of the central keep, where volunteers trained and meals were shared. Faces he knew nodded in greeting, but as they ventured further, the halls began to change. The walls widened, the ceilings soared higher, and the air grew thick with the scent of dust and time. These passages hadn't been renovated like the rest of the summit. They bore the markings of a people long gone—carvings of angular runes and towering arches that suggested builders far larger than any human. Giants, perhaps. Or something worse.
The messenger stopped at a massive stone doorway, its surface etched with faded symbols that seemed to pulse faintly in the torchlight. She pushed it open, revealing a chamber so vast it could have housed a small airship with room to spare. The centerpiece was a crystalline stump rising from the floor, wide and circular, like the petrified remains of an ancient tree turned to gleaming crystal. Its surface caught the dim light, refracting it into soft, prismatic hues. Around the edges of the room, people stood in clusters, their whispers barely audible, their expressions tight with concern. The air was heavy with anticipation, as though the chamber itself were waiting for something momentous.
Xin stepped inside cautiously, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor.
On the crystalline stump sat six wooden chairs, arranged in a wide circle, each occupied by a figure whose presence seemed to pull at the room's gravity. Xin's eyes moved over them, cataloging each in turn.
First was Mara, the mature woman who ran the mess hall with an iron hand and a kind voice. She organized the summit's food and supply lines, ensuring no one went hungry despite the harsh conditions. Without her, the summit would have starved long ago. Her grey-streaked hair was pulled back tightly, and her sharp eyes met Xin's with a nod of acknowledgment.
Next to her sat Gorran, the beast-man craftsman. His fur was greyed with age, but his arms were thick with corded muscle, and his hands moved with a dexterity that belied his years. He was the summit's master builder, responsible for the beds, weapons, and shelters that kept their community alive. Gorran had taken it upon himself to train others, passing on his knowledge to create a generation capable of building and repairing with their own hands.
Then there was Toren, the lean, quiet leader of the duelists. His eyes were always watching, always calculating. His squad was the summit's sword arm, training daily to maintain their edge. If a creature breached the dome, it was Toren's people who met it first, their blades flashing in disciplined unison.
To Toren's left was Lira, her presence a quiet anchor in the room. Xin paused for a moment, his mind flickering to the past. Lira had once been the summit's strategist, a role she'd held with grace until Xin had taken over. She'd stepped down without protest, her face lighting with what seemed like relief. Now, she served as coordinator, organizing the summit's daily movements, defenses, and duties. Her knack for seeing potential in others was unmatched—once, over a shared meal, she'd told Xin she'd been a sports coach before the world changed, her voice tinged with nostalgia for a life long gone.
Then there was Raven, clad in black armor that seemed to drink the light. He needed no weapon—his presence was weapon enough. The summit's lone greatshield, leader of the vanguards, Raven was the first wall between the people and the monsters beyond. His silence was often mistaken for indifference, but those who lived here knew the truth: so long as Raven stood, the summit would not fall.
And at the head of the circle was Shun, the healer, the protector, the one who had built this haven from nothing. For three years, he had carved safety from a world that offered none, his name whispered with reverence across the summit. To most, he was a hero. Right now, that hero stood with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed, listening to an argument that crackled across the stump like lightning.
Xin wove through the onlookers, their murmurs parting like a tide as he approached the stump. Eyes followed him, heavy with expectation. Shun noticed him almost immediately, his gaze sharp but warm. With a subtle motion, he beckoned Xin forward.
Xin didn't hesitate. He crouched slightly, then launched himself into a clean, graceful jump, his boots tapping lightly against the crystal as he landed within the circle. Lira motioned to the empty chair beside her, her smile brief but genuine. Xin gave her a small nod and sat, the wood creaking faintly under his weight.
The crystalline stump was larger than he'd expected, its surface cool and smooth beneath his hands. Each member of the circle sat at least a meter and a half apart, their chairs angled toward the center. This wasn't a casual meeting—it was a council, a gathering of the summit's most vital voices.
"Glad you were able to join us, Xin," Shun said, his voice carrying calmly through the chamber, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Xin glanced around the circle, meeting each leader's eyes before settling on Shun. "Yeah, thanks for the heads-up. What's all this about?"
Shun exhaled slowly, the weight of his breath settling over the room like a mantle. He looked around the circle, meeting each leader's gaze in turn, his expression unreadable but heavy with purpose. When he spoke again, his voice was steady, deliberate.
"We're thinking of tackling the second Act."