Astra was completely exhausted from the battle. Merry had gone off to deal with company logistics — Astra didn't even argue. He was way too tired to bother with the paperwork and briefings, so he left it to his second in command. Most platoon commanders got their orders relayed during the meeting anyway, either from HQ or the logistics squad directly, so Astra didn't really have to do much anymore.
Still, it felt weird. Disconnected. The world felt far. He was so used to browsing the mana network — seeing updates, news, entertainment, whatever — but now it was just static. Either it wouldn't connect, or it came in like sludge. Blurry text, half-loaded mana signals, corrupted feeds. Borderline mana war interference. Classic. When both sides flood the field with anti-comm sigils and field jammers, it's hard to send or receive anything unless it's local and direct.
Whatever. He was bored. He was hungry. And he wanted alcohol. And sleep.
He hadn't eaten all day. Maybe longer. It all blurred together now.
So he headed toward the nobility and officer mess in the inner keep. Castle Velhor's highborn and upper officer dining hall. The place was packed. Warriors still in armor, noble sons and daughters in war coats, officers covered in dust and blood. Every one of them looked like they'd seen ghosts.
Astra paused just at the threshold — and like clockwork, silence hit the room.
Everyone turned.
Everyone bowed.
Astra exhaled sharply through his nose. Right. He could've just asked a maid to bring him something. But that would've taken time, and he didn't want to wait. He walked into the hall like it wasn't dead silent — like the hundreds of eyes on him weren't suffocating.
The hall was old. Iron chandeliers, candle-lit. Fortified with layered mana wards to protect morale — the one room in the keep meant to feel safe. Whatever that meant these days.
He walked to the food table without a word. Grabbed the biggest mana-beast leg he could find — some avian thing, spiced and roasted — and a heavy glass of dark alcohol. He didn't look around. He didn't care. Not tonight.
Everyone watched him like he was a some myth eating dinner.
Astra sat down alone at a stone bench and dug in, not bothering to make it look proper. The meat was sweet and spiced, a mana-heavy cut laced with restorative properties. He devoured it without grace. Chased it with the burn of alcohol. And again — silence. Even the murmurs had stopped.
He could almost hear the castle groaning from the distance — reinforcements being moved, mana-forges heating up, the walls shuddering from new enchantments being layered.
It was starting again soon.
He didn't even bother looking up. Social anxiety was the least of his problems. He was going to develop something worse if this kept up. All eyes. All the time.
When the food was gone, he stood. No one stopped him. Some soldiers from his own platoon bowed in the halls as he passed — he gave them a simple nod.
He made his way deeper into the keep, through hallways slick with the scent of mana and oil. His room wasn't far — private, warded, and buried behind multiple barrier points. A place only lords had access to.
Then came the whistle.
Then the boom.
The walls trembled. Dust fell. Somewhere far above, the castle's eastern defense line had just taken another direct hit.
Astra sighed. "Fuck me," he muttered, stripping down to just his pants and collapsing onto the bed as the bombardments began again.
And just like that — he was out.
Astra dreamt of fire and death.
Then the castle shuddered — hard — and he jerked awake. The faint glow of warded lamps flickered in the corner. A poor maid stood trembling by the open door, bowing low.
"My prince…" she stammered. "His lordship Seif requests your presence. Urgently."
Astra sighed. His eyes stung. He glanced at the time node etched into the ward glyph near the ceiling.
Dark again.
He'd slept through the entire day — deep into nightfall. He blinked. "Wow," he muttered. "They gave me actual rest."
He was a little shocked. He'd expected two hours at best, not the full blackout treatment.
He nodded toward the maid and stretched, quietly observing her. She was young. Worn. Poor features. Probably drafted into castle service from the outer districts. Even here, in the keep, everyone was a little desperate.
Still, he wasn't stupid. Even while asleep, he'd had guards outside — his own platoon, rotated personally. People would kill for less than a royal kill count. Gold or glory made blades appear in strange places. He wasn't getting caught with his pants down.
He summoned his armor. The pieces pulled together with practiced ease, wrapping him in that familiar weight. It had repaired itself while he slept — but it was still dirty. So was he. Covered in dried blood, caked mana dust, and exhaustion.
He could've summoned water. Snuck a quick rinse. But most water mages were probably keeping the castle's reservoirs alive, and if he pulled even a drop from the castle's flow lines, he'd get an earful from the reservoir wardens.
Didn't matter. He needed to move.
His armor sealed around him. The enchantments flickered to life. A second passed — then another — before Shroud's voice cracked through the communication link.
"Prince," she said, brisk. "Hope you got rest. The enemy's prepping for their first real assault. We've got more than half their force amassing on the Veiled Edge. No sightings of Deathsinger squads yet — suspicious. I've authorized full open-fire policy as of an hour ago. Our bombardments are slowing them down."
She paused. Her voice went tight.
"However… we've confirmed the two enemy commanders."
Astra stopped in his tracks.
"First," Shroud continued, "Lord of Peace. Thanatos Solace. Scion of House Solace. Heir potential. Winner of the Death Accords tournament. Pinnacle-tier combatant. Necromancer. Wields Solace's unique death-type mana. He has a domain spell — undocumented fully — but it raises both enemy and allied corpses under his control. Details are fragmented, hidden, but it's deadly. It's real."
"Second — Herald of Death. Casamir of Styx. One of Deathsinger's current vice-commanders. Winner of the Death Tune and Endless March trials. Curse magic and an unknown soul-type. Rare. Secretive. Also pinnacle-tier, also confirmed domain user, also carries an ultimate spell. No clear intel on what it does but he is nicknamed the Ghostking of Styx."
Astra clicked his tongue. "Great," he muttered, walking up the stone path toward the ramparts. "Does everyone get this much detail? I'm scared to see mine."
"Oh, we actually got a hold of yours," Shroud said, deadpan.
Astra blinked. "Wait, really? Read it."
"Why?"
"I'm curious."
"…Fine," she sighed. "Lord of Shadows and Prince of the Stars, Astra Noctis of House Night. Last heir to Night. Runner-up of the Springtime Advent Tournament. Confirmed Mythical Core bearer. Rank Two wielding Rank Three battle strength. Volatile and highly talented. Wielder of both Star Magic and Shadow. Possesses multiple domain spells that transcend standard rank—"
She stopped. "Yeah, I'm not reading the rest. You don't need that ego right now."
Astra laughed. "Didn't expect me to sound so impressive."
He could almost hear her rolling her eyes through the link.
"Anyway," she cut back in, "the Eastern Gate's about to be hit. Hard. Tenor and his makeshift platoon — all high to pinnacle tier — are on Deathsinger duty. I'm handling logistics, bombardments, and reinforcement schedules. Spectre's holding the Eastern Gate. You've got West, South, and the Southeast flank. Seif is holding North and West overlap. Both of you are expected to provide East with reinforcements the second things get critical — which they will. Platoons are mobilized. Companies are in full force. Siege mode is officially underway."
Astra looked out at the walls — far beyond, the night horizon shimmered. Movement. Shadows. Runes lighting up in the clouds. Siege formations starting to pulse.
Astra rolled his shoulders. "Understood," he said, tightening his gauntlets. "Let's get to work."
Astra moved through the inner keep like a ghost in metal.
The stone corridors flickered with lamplight, and the walls trembled faintly every few seconds — distant echoes of bombardments that didn't stop. His boots hit smooth obsidian tile and reinforced mana-sandstone as he passed through checkpoint after checkpoint. His clearance let him walk uninterrupted, but the looks still came. The wary bows. The silent nods.
From the vaulted halls of the inner keep to the narrow bridges connecting the outer defenses, the change was stark. Here, near the south edge where east and west met like strained tendons of war, the world was moving.
He could've taken the direct way to the eastern wall. He wanted to. Wanted to stand atop the farthest rampart and look out at the endless army forming in the distance. But he couldn't. Trust had to carry weight now. He'd given orders. Now he had to live by them.
This was the first major assault.
The real one.
The ramparts were busy — soldiers in full gear, squads moving in packs, runners calling out codewords, officers relaying directives that smelled of desperation masked as discipline. Shields clanked, siege arrays hummed, enchantments glowed like veins pulsing in the walls. Smoke from nearby bombardments hung in the air, thin and sour. Overhead, the stars were bright — unnervingly so. And the twin moons hovered unnaturally low on the horizon, like two watching gods waiting for the blood to start spilling.
The marble-white stone of the ramparts had already cracked in places. Some sections had been hastily patched with shadowwood and blessed ash from the inner cathedrals. Others were simply left as is — ruined and worn, proof that even a holy keep could bleed.
Astra didn't speak. Warriors nodded as he passed. A few gave short bows. That was all. It was wartime. No one had time for reverence.
His boots took him to the southern-western convergence — where he'd stationed his personal squad. A makeshift retinue of pinnacle-tier combatants, cobbled together from different corners of the castle command.
Merry had made it — of course he had. Kaal too, kneeling now, robes pulled tight around him as he whispered some silent prayer beside a box stacked with ammo glyphs and ration crates. Astra always wondered what god Kaal prayed to, and what it meant to pray when the sky was falling apart.
The rest of the squad was already assembling — seven in total, including himself.
He couldn't strip his own company from the south and west just to protect himself. He was no fool. So he'd left three of his platoon leaders in charge of those sections and pulled Kaal alone — the most useful in his book. Then borrowed muscle and legends from elsewhere.
Two had come from Spectre's own command: Reid, an old man with weathered eyes and a voice like gravel, and Wynar, a towering ancient elven warrior whose long life had clearly been more war than peace. Both of them should've retired five years ago. Yet here they were, fighting a border fracture war under the banner of some young prince most of the world still didn't believe in.
It was comedic. Tragic, even.
Then there was Wayward — of House Stockendale. Pinnacle-tier. Short, rough-voiced, built like a city brawler, and adorned in half-magi-tech armor that hissed steam from the joints. Astra had only read of Stockendale. Once a powerful dune-border noble house, now reduced to minor status. But still dangerous. Still brilliant. In recent years, their innovations had spread like weeds. Copies of Dunyas House Steam's advancements, sure, but effective.
Astra had always wanted to visit Steamcity. The Hive Mind, they called it. Home of living machines and lightning rails. But not today.
Next to Wayward was Heifer of House Ashdust — mid-forties, volcanic affinity, high-tier with a knack for ash and dust manipulation. His presence alone could choke out a battlefield.
The last was the wildcard: Aina of Shadow. One of the orphan scions, raised by the minor branches of House Shadow. She'd risen fast. Too fast. Rank Three in five years. Kill count to prove it. Rumors whispered her name like a prophecy. Tall, silver-eyed, purple-black hair tied in a half-knot. Darkness affinity, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. Pinnacle-tier, with a known domain spell and something else no one had quite figured out yet.
These were the seven.
A squad made not to conquer, but to shield.
Their purpose was simple: if the castle was breached on the western side, they formed the final wall around Astra. If Astra moved east to reinforce that front, half would follow, half would stay — holding the line behind him, stabilizing his absence, and bolstering Tenor's eastern push with targeted interventions.
It wasn't ideal. But nothing was.
As Astra stepped up onto the edge of the western wall, he saw Kaal shift, finishing his prayer and standing slowly, his old bronze staff in hand, still warm from the sigils.
"To who do you pray for commander? I know you detest the Church of Death and most of the other dead gods." Astra asked, voice low.
Kaal looked at him, eyes calm despite everything.
Kaal's words lingered in the cold air, calm and unshaken.
"Who do I pray for?. Ah young prince, I pray to those who are lost. To those who are dead. To those who are alive. To those who have found purpose," he said, voice steady like mountain wind. "And I pray that I find mine in this life."
Astra looked at him—really looked. In that moment, Kaal didn't look like a battlefield commander or even a warrior. He looked like a figure from scripture, a priest cloaked in warlight and prayer, perched atop an ancient keep while the sky trembled with falling fire. Bombardments lit the air behind him like dying stars, and the wind carried the low chants of readiness from the walls.
Astra felt something tug deep inside his chest. He remembered old days—when he was a child, filthy and small, curled in the corner of some broken temple of dusk, listening to sermons while chewing on stale bread handed out by weary acolytes. Sermons of the dead gods, long gone and never coming back. Sermons about glory, sacrifice, ascension. Words that meant little to the hungry but still somehow stayed.
"Interesting," Astra said quietly, a small smile touching his lips. He envied Kaal's peace, in a way. That stillness.
But he himself had no gods.
He never did.
And in truth, it was considered near-heresy in the Realms to have no faith. Most mortals, peasants and scholars alike, followed the cults of the dead gods. Some prayed to angels or saints. Some clung to the belief that the gods would return. That judgment—or salvation—would come. Churches still stood, even if hollow. Shrines still bore offerings, even if dust-covered.
Some were more zealous then others even some churches who were more lax then others had some groups or even guilds of extremists, for example the Church of Death which had like 3-4 sects and parishes was one of the smallest in following,at only a couple billion?, Astra couldn't even remember the number, was one of those in the extreme section, they believed and hoped to revive their long dead god in hopes of his embrace, Solace was a great house who even claimed a fragment of death, whatever the hell that meant, The church of life which was their greatest enemy was in fact lax and more laid back as well as being the largest church in all the realms, and even then it had two very extreme sides, the side that cherished life and progress and fulfillment, and the side that cherished struggle and survival and conflict, Such as the guild of War, one of the strongest guilds in todays days spanning all the realms.
All the major nine gods had churches, Shadow, Desire, Order, Light, Knowledge, Creation, even the minor gods had their own cults and even churches.
Night however was placed under a heretic church, no one really knew why, they all just knew that Night was especially despicable and evil, yet many other sides fought for this, including his long dead house.
It was truly a hectic political and religious mess
Even now, angels walked the world. Seraphim whispered from gods knows where. Bishops paraded like emperors in gold-trimmed armor. To the common man, they were gods in flesh. To the wise, they were old weapons wearing masks of holiness.
Even Astra—last of the Line of Night—had zealots. He knew it. Somewhere across the Realms, they whispered his name as though it were prophecy. Perhaps they were right.
After all, he was the heir to Noctis and Umbra. Blood of both lines ran in his veins, no matter how faint. Starfire and shadow bent to his will. And he bore a Mythical core—perhaps more than one. If he chose to claim godhood, who could deny him? The path was open.
And he would use that, soon.
Because the path he had chosen to walk demanded more than strength. It demanded myth.
If he could become a prophet—if he dared to claim to be rebirth or reincarnation—if he convinced the world he was divine or close enough—then warriors would come. Powerful mortals would kneel. And some might even rise with him.
After all, The Tales of Atlas taught one thing above all:
To dare.
And what greater blasphemy was there than to believe the divine were as equal as you?
Thus many walked the path to divinity in service and hopes of rebirthing dead gods, Others walked for personal gains and selfish desires, Astra was such a person.
If mortals could not aspire to divinity, then why live at all? He laughed in his mind
Astra was pulled from his thoughts by a shifting figure in the distance.
Far off on the cityline—movement. Too much.
The wind howled differently now. Whistles—then thunder. Streaks of fire hissed above them, roaring overhead like banshees. Bombardments. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
The siege was starting.
The Castle alarms went on, Horns rang out as warriors were notified.
The slow chant of death was heard even through all the noise, slow ancient and eerie.
"Get ready," Astra commanded sharply to his elites.
Warriors around him snapped to life. Movement spread across the ramparts like a pulse. Orders flew. Weapons were drawn. Enchantments flared to life, arcs of power stretching between casters and runes and walls.
Astra stood tall as the wind picked up again, his armor pulsing with quiet light, the twin moons casting long shadows behind him.
It had begun.
Far out across the southern wall, Astra saw the enemy advance. Siege towers rumbled forward, rows of men pressing behind them in rigid formations. From his perch atop the high tower, Astra turned eastward—and almost paled.
It was worse.
Far worse.
The eastern flank blazed with mana fire and steel. Artillery lit up the dusk in blinding arcs. There were more men—thousands—a tightly packed, disciplined army funneling toward a narrow stretch of wall. Their siege engines were massive, crafted from dark, cursed alloy, reinforced with what looked like peacekeeper plating—metal that shimmered faintly with glyphs of death. They weren't even subtle. Black banners embroidered with the Jolly Roger insignia flapped in the wind like wings of a carrion god.
They reeked of curse mana.
Astra narrowed his eyes.
"Why is the Peace Corps so full of Cursebearers…" he muttered, half in disdain, half in curiosity.
The solace warriors ran to the wall under heavy long rang weapon fire, ladders, shields seige engines, it was a swarm of rank twos and ones getting to the massive castle wall.
Astra thought of one word. Carnage, like a horde of undead fighting over flesh, ladders were erected, those who had means to scale the walls began to, and some even made it to the top fighting valiantly, Astra had to say, Solace troops did not fear death as normal warriors would. "How eerie"
He didn't need to act yet. Not while the real threats stayed hidden. His job wasn't to waste strength—it was to strike at the heart. So he sat, silent and still, high above the chaos, watching.
Below him, battle raged.
Ballistae launched bolts the size of tree trunks. Spells detonated in red, gold, and black—fire, gravity, wind, poison. Ladders rose only to be snapped in half by enchanted chains. Screams echoed, distant yet sharp. Mana flared in bursts like stars going nova.
The air reeked of burning flesh and iron.
Yet he waited, his squad watching the battle unfold, as they looked down on the massive castle walls and the fighting.
Then it came.
Two voices—not shouted, but declared—rippled across the battlefield like gongs struck in hell.
"Curse oh Curse"
"Leech onto thy enemies."
"Suffocate thy neighbors."
A strange pulse seized his chest.
"Offerings to the End."
His heart slowed.
"Offerings to Peace"
"Take root."
His limbs resisted movement.
"Curse of Death."
Suddenly everything turned gray.
The sky. The field. Even his own mind.
Astra collapsed to one knee, breath catching in his throat. Something massive coiled around his cores—tight, invasive. Very much targeted. Every attempt to draw mana made him weaker, like his own energy was being siphoned away. Around him, his warriors cried out, stumbling, some collapsing.
Even the Rank Threes looked like prisoners shackled in place.
"What the hell is this…"
Panic. Real panic gripped him.
This wasn't normal domain pressure. This was pinnacle-tier suppression—perfect, overlapping spellwork. And the way it gripped not just his body but his mind, silencing instincts and numbing his will—
"Just who-" Astra wondered panicking yet only two names came to his mind.
The Herald of Death.
The Lord of Peace.
"Shit," Astra whispered aloud.
He tried to call upon the shadows, yet they felt sluggish and loose, the stars distant.
A voice crackled into his head, fragmented by magical interference.
"M-My prince…" It was Shroud, shaken. "We've miscalculated. This, is way stronger than expected… they bypassed the castle wards. You need to summon your domain now—or we'll get overrun."
"I'm trying!" Astra gasped, staggering behind the nearest crenellation. "Every time I call on mana—it drains me faster."
He heard swords begin to clash below. Screams rang out. He could feel them breaching the walls. The eastern gate—he didn't even want to look.
"Shit, shit, shit…"
His Blessing go Curiosity kicked in, pushing his thoughts into overdrive, analyzing. Observing. Processing.
And then he saw it.
Sickly black green threads.
Curse mana of the highest tier possible by mortals—twisting into his cores like barbed wire. He was being anchored, sapped, bound. Someone had aimed this directly at him.
A trap.
They weren't just suppressing his side—they were targeting him specifically.
Far away, heat bloomed. Astra turned eastward and saw a towering column of red flame and molten iron erupt from the battlefield. The air warped with color and force.
"Spectre," Astra muttered, wheezing. "Of course the bastard already broke through…"
He tapped into the comms network through a whisper, voice hoarse.
"Report. Status?"
"Platoons 1-16 or engaged on the walls Prince, Platoons 17-20 are in reserve aiding against knights" Merry responded strained "Pressure...is mounting, the Ea-astern side is steady, the south and west are losing ground. This isn't good my Prince"
Astra looked to his left where his elites were seemingly breaking their shackles,
"How do you feel?" Astra asked "Heavy pressure," Kaal responded. "But not like yours. It seems they're focusing on you, my Prince."
Astra coughed, and then—laughing through cracked lips—said, "Figures. Give me time. I'll break free. Go—support the walls. Im sure high tiers are deployed now"
His squad of elites nodded and obeyed as they jumped down.
He was alone now. Knees buckled behind a spire on a tower overlooking the southern wall, smoke and magic singing through the air around him.
Astra looked around, as he stumbled over to a ledge.
Solace troops were mounting, the pressure rising, hordes and hordes of warriors were scaling the walls, seige engines roared as they opened their gates, men screamed, mana screamed and blood flowed.
Astra sat himself down."Fuck" he laughed self deprecatingly
"How do I break free…" he whispered to himself, nausea rising in his chest. His own mana—once vibrant—now flickered like a dying ember.
He called upon shadows again. Nothing. Called upon stars. Sluggish. Slipping through his fingers like oil.
He laughed—hollow, bitter.
"Two of the most esteemed knights in the realm—felt it necessary to suppress me? A mere squire?"
Astra thought of all the possible ways he could breakthrough, yet none came up.
"Try to breakthrough forcefully?, No this wont work, this is the real world, I cant just will my way through two pinnacle tier knights domain spell, not as long as they have a lock on me, Perhaps move inside the castle wards?, "No they already bypassed it, Maybe fight as a suppressed combatant? " He laughed "yeah so I can get cornered by knights and slaughtered, no not even knights in my state the most normal of warriors could kill me right now. shit shit shit."
"Wait, Lock on, they have a lock on me. He smiled, No way, Isn't this too coincidental?"
Hope.
He remembered.
The Starfinder.
The divine relic hidden beneath the old Shadow estate in Duskfall. A gift of the Stargazer—one of his divine ancestors. It wasn't built for attack—but for escape. Obfuscation. Freedom.
He could use it. Drop a mark. Vanish. Even perhaps teleport outside, summon his domain, and reappear or simply use it to disappear escaping the tracking the two commanders have on him.
"Wait...if they know where I am theres no doubt a team of Deathsingers coming my way." Astra felt a startling terrifying premonition.
Focus he urged himself, His blessing really did not make matters easier in times of pressure and panic.
"Ok, so teleporting wont work, ,my domains wouldn't follow, besides maybe Blackmoon and that wasnt powerful enough to cover this stupid blunder. " Astra spoke aloud to himself out of habit.
"Disappear, summon blackstar then-"
As he was thinking he felt a presence, he looked towards the spire door, and raised his sword.
The door opened, A man of small stature and a medium build walked forward, black hair black eyes pale skin. "Umbral plaines descent, saharan look one of shadows it seems."Astra thought quickly as he sized him up. The squire was in basic standard issued dark armor which adorned the golden ouroboros of house Shadow. He wielded a standard issue bow made from the black trees of the umbral plains and long black spear made of shadow steel.
"A squire, shadow legions standard issue gear, hmm strange, whats he doing up here ?" Astra thought as he discerned why he was there.
The squire and seemed frantic and scared.
"Ah..gods..pr-prince?" he muttered terrified as he bowed in a panic.
Astra sighed,"Great some coward hiding up here? " He thought
"Squire, what is your rank and station?" Astra asked, still very much under severe suffocating pressure, yet he was still on guard the whole time.
The squire stood at attention "Second Sergeant Vylaz of Penumbra, 7th reserve company." He bowed
"One of mine?" Astra asked, "Why are you up here and not with your squad?"
He grew paler "I was sent here by Squad HQ, Something about providing security for an officer, I had no idea it was you prince." He stammered.
"Great they sent me a half scared mid tier squire as protection." Astra finally relaxed, the curse was getting even more unbearable, "Merry come in" Astra spoke. He needed comms now.
"Merry?" he repeated, he heard nothing, damn astra sighed what a powerful domain to lull our communications. Strange, Wait, squad HQ?, we don't have a squad HQ.
A massive explosion resounded down below, Astra turned his head to look.
Suddenly, Sergeant Vylaz lunged forward aiming for Astras back, he wielded a long dagger!
It oozed off the Curse of Death!
Astra had merely a second to react as he felt the warped energy roar behind him, But he was in terrible shape, his magic was not there, his guard lowered and he was slower and weaker then everyone.
"Assassin!" Astras mind screamed as he spun and tried to raise his sword in time.
The dagger scratched his chest-plate as astras sword deflected it, It the energy grazed his shoulder penetrating his armor.
Sharp pain assaulted Astras mind as the world turned hazy and dark, fear gripped his heart and despair assaulted him.
In all his life Astra had felt all forms of negative emotions, be it rage, sadness, despair,terror, fear. Yet this fear that assaulted him was too much!, he felt tears flow out of his eyes.
The Vylaz pulled back his dagger and spun around as he kicked astra his energy roaring to pinnacle tier two!
Astra hit the edge of a ledge, he felt pain in his left shoulder, he looked up, Vylaz was murmuring a prayer in a language he recognized as Dunyian.
"Dunya?" Astra thought "What?", He quickly tried calming himself down, but it worked to no avail, it was like he was under wave after wave of emotion, every time he raised his head above it another one struck.
Vylaz attacked again, this time he threw the spear, Astra jumped and rolled, as he raised his sword,meeting the dagger. Vylaz was stronger than him, he felt it. Astra riposted as he thrust his sword still in a panic, only to miss and get stabbed again, this time in his left arm, Astra felt blood dripping on the ground. The world seemed to become more hazy and louder, the clangor of battle assaulting Astras mind.
Astra took a deep breath, as emotion welled up. He laughed self deprecatingly, "Ah bastard since when did I care about how I felt?" he spoke malice dripping from his voice, "You'll pay for this trust me," Astra reeled in his thoughts
One goal one mission, fuck everything else, kill this asshole then figure out what to do.
He raised his sword again, "Say just who are you? Id like to know who is to kill me at the very least."
Across him Vylaz snorted. As he walked towards Astra slowly "Mr. V of the Order of Ezio."
Wow the order really came after me? Astra laughed "Order of Ezio huh, say what is my bounty?
Mr.V laughed, "I'll indulge you sure, you are a Four Star target."
Four stars ! Astra thought, that is a high commission! he remembered the way bounty rankings worked for orders and guilds, it was based up on a system of stars, Up to seven, anything above five was considered demigod status and the limit for a mortal was four!, Astra was a prime target!
The rewards? Lineage changing, but he isn't a random but a member from the order, he most likely would gain more power and influence rise in rank, perhaps get adopted by the elite brotherhood and become a noble with a stupid amount of wealth.
Mr. V also seems like a very cautious and smart man Astra could tell instantly by how he had fought in the brief encounter.
He had studied all available tapes about me, hmm rather then trying to kill me quickly when I had my guard down he injured my arm lowering my fighting prowess , he also chose a perfect situation where I am incapacitated and cannot wield my full powers, probably by tapping the comms somehow, he infiltrated the castle, perhaps he had already been there or even further back could have been in shadow keep since the beginning just stalking me. How did he get into my company Astra wondered, no better yet, how is he in collaboration with Solace, his dagger channels more and more of the domain into me, has he waited and collaborated from the very shadows this whole time? how scary, shit I need to focus ill find out later, damn curse!
Mr.V's mana roared to life, as life energy warped around him.
"Life energy? a unique affinity, he also wields a rare magic but its weakened, it seems the curse of death is taxing him heavily.
Vines launched all over the floor, lashing out, Astra instantly focused despite his state, he would use the Sword of Shadows to evade the attacks.
"Prince! Shroud's entered the field. I'm on comms now. Spectre's holding the east but barely. The west's under siege by Deathsingers. Tenor's hurt. The eastern gate is—barely intact. We're losing. Bad. And this domain—it's empowering them." Merry's voice came in, sharp and strained.
Communications are back, it seems he stopped using whatever he had jamming them to focus up. Astra deducted
Very well
Astra also decided to summon the Starfinder!
He reached into his core and summoned it.
The Starfinder.
A ancient golden astrolabe, etched in ancient Saharan, materialized in his hand—glowing faintly, the words pulsing with celestial light:
Wherever the stars shine, there you may tread—Unseen. Unburdened. Unchained.
The curse threads faltered—no longer fed, no longer anchored. The domain still lingered, but they could no longer locate him. Their lock on him had broken.
Astra smiled.
"Damn bastards"
He cut vines as his swords black blade hummed to life. He summoned a wave of shadows to drown out the area around him in darkness, he didn't want this squire seeing the artifact..
Astra didn't waste time.
With a deep breath, he hid the divine artifact and called upon his mana with his full strength.
All across the battlefield, the shadows deepened, stars sharpening in the heavens. A mass of shadows surged up the southern wall, feeding on itself, thick and roiling. A dark orb formed—dense, withering, throbbing with volatile energy.
In the distant city-side vantage, the two commanders of Solace faltered. They could no longer sense Astra.
"Did the Assassin succeed?" the Herald of Death had just asked, he was a gray-haired, gray-eyed figure clad in ornate gold-trimmed skeletal plate, a signature of the Deathsingers. The spiked halo of his armor shimmered faintly.
The Lord of Peace scoffed. Taller, with pointed ears and a noble elven face, his red eyes scanned the city. Clad in blackened crimson armor and holding a helmet crowned with olive branches, he shook his head. "Crafty little thing. A rank two with more gall than sense. It was worth a shot. Shame, though—he's not dead. He's responding. Summoning a counter-domain. It seems the order has really declined in its quality."
The herald chuckled "In their defense, they managed to get a pinnacle tier rank two inside the shadow keep and even placed him on target, It almost makes one wonder where they cant infiltrate."
"It doesn't matter" The lord sighed "We wont kill him easily it seems, though it was a great opportunity. Lets continue with our plan."
They turned back toward the wall just as the sky cracked.
From above, stars descended.
Blackstar rose again above Velhor. Astra's domain collided with theirs—a lesser force in theory, but, larger and more versatile, targeted, focused, and unyielding. The oppressive weight of the Herald's and Lord's combined domains still lingered, but their grip loosened. Enhancements and suppression flattened. The battlefield found a new equilibrium.
Astra inhaled, mana surging back into him. His strength returned to the level of a knight. Shadows swirled at his fingertips. Stars burned cold and waiting above.
They weren't equals yet. But he could kill again.
He expanded his senses. Shadows across the southern and eastern castle ramparts bent to his will. Soldiers screamed, vanished. Cries of steel rang through the smoke-choked sky. It was chaos—raw, deafening chaos—and it made his head throb. But the earlier curse-drain was fading. He could stand, though barely.
Astra sensed Mr.V disappear "how can he just vanish?!" Astra tried to find his mana signature and shadow but couldnt sense it.
Damn Order of Ezio.
Astra plumped down, As he summoned a half of dome of shadows to protect him from arrows, it seems the warriors of solace were upon them, for arrows to reach so high up. he sighed" I cant even fight anymore", His arm was mangled.
Fine.
He didn't need to fight in the fray. He'd bombard from above.
He extended his sensed, as he reached. Touched the enemy's shadows. His allies'. Every creeping flicker of mana. And then—two spells, two actions, layered through instinct.
Blackstar trembled.
The heavens dropped.
Dozens of miniature stars—offensive, concentrated barrages of astral fire—crashed down across enemy lines. Defensive barriers strained. Mages died screaming.
Below, the shadows rippled like oil on water.
Tendrils lashed. Chains burst from the ground. Spikes erupted through flesh and plate. Shadow-magic massacres broke the front line, wave after wave.
Astra killed hundreds in minutes.
Sweat poured down his temple. It was taxing—no question. But it was working.
He had never truly been able to sit back and use his domain without being caught in melee. This was new. He was learning. He was adapting.
His reserves were being replenished constantly, he was under shadow and the stars after all.
And then—he felt something else.
Within the shadows... faint echoes. Souls. Or fragments of them.
That was new.
He pressed into his curse aspect, trying to draw deeper. But the enemy domain still pulsed over the field, resisting. No progress.
Still—
Interesting.