There was no sunlight to mark its arrival—only a faint graying of the sky, barely enough to peel back the storm's heavy shroud.
Rain still fell in slow, tired sheets, gentler than before but persistent, like a breath that refused to die.
Samuel was already awake.
He hadn't slept much.
Not with the roof of their hollow shelter leaking, each drop striking his face like the tick of a clock counting down to something he didn't understand.
Not with Lyra's words from last night circling in his skull like vultures.
Morvain. Nyxveil. Eyes that should've been blue.
He stretched with a groan, joints stiff, body sore. The ache wasn't just physical—it clung to his thoughts, made every movement feel like wading through half-frozen tar.
"Second day," he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse.
"Still no sign of the cathedral."
"We need to move faster," he whispered. "Or we'll rot here before anything finds us."
Behind him, Lyra stirred.
She didn't say anything at first—just sat up slowly, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed but alert. She hadn't slept much either.
"Morning," she said quietly.
He grunted in response.
Breakfast was simple. The same pink fruit from yesterday—only now, Lyra had taken the time to boil them in a makeshift pot of bark and coals. They looked less like food and more like steaming organs. Still, the taste had softened—less rust, more sweetness.
Warm, at least.
They sat by the dying embers, eating in silence. No words, just the quiet chewing of people who didn't want to think too hard about what came next.
Finally, Samuel stood, brushing soot from his clothes.
"Ready?" he asked.
Lyra tied her damp robes tighter, then nodded.
The world outside had not improved.
The forest greeted them with mud and fog, trees dripping with cold rain, branches clawing at the air like half-awake beasts. Each step was deliberate, careful. The terrain was slick, the underbrush too thick, the wind too loud.
But Samuel kept leading them east.
Toward the flashes he'd seen last night. The explosions. The fight. The winged monster.
Every now and then, he stopped—listening.
Watching. Feeling.
But the air was quieter now. No shrieks. No unnatural wingbeats. Just the soft crunch of their boots in the wet undergrowth and the hiss of water falling from a canopy that felt far too heavy.
"How far is it?" Lyra asked after a while, her voice low.
Samuel squinted through the mist. The forest ahead twisted into strange shapes, branches hanging like broken limbs. A distant clearing. Maybe half an hour away, assuming they weren't ambushed.
"Close," he said. "I think."
They kept walking.
Soon, the trees parted.
Samuel stepped past a line of thorny underbrush and found himself staring into a clearing—wide and quiet, the air thick with the scent of smoke and iron.
Makeshift camps dotted the clearing, nothing like the orderly sect encampments he'd seen in books. These were hastily thrown together—tents slouched like wounded beasts, some torn, others barely standing.
Fires crackled in shallow pits, their flames low and guttering, as if they, too, were tired of the night.
Disciples moved between the tents, each one marked by fatigue.
Samuel counted them instinctively.
Twenty in black robes—young, ragged, their faces pale and their expressions hollow. Many limped. Some bore bandages, others had none, walking as if their wounds were too deep to bother covering.
Seven wore white robes, inner disciples, their steps firmer, but their eyes just as dim. They barked orders sharply, trying to impose discipline on chaos, herding the injured like shepherds wrangling a broken flock.
Then his gaze landed on the last figure.
A golden robe.
He sat alone atop a large, flat stone near the edge of the clearing, wrapped in the fading glow of a fire that cast long, flickering shadows behind him.
The man didn't move much. He seemed absorbed, hunched slightly over a strange artifact—a circular slab of metal etched with glowing runes, rotating slowly as he manipulated it with quiet, calculated movements.
Navigation artifact?
Samuel guessed, watching the golden threads of energy swirl within it.
Hard to tell. Could be scrying. Could be mapping the cathedral.
Could be… something worse.
He didn't like the look of it.
Everything felt wrong.
Yes, it had to be the winged abomination from last night. That ungodly screech had split the skies. But judging from the state of the camp, things had gone even worse than expected.
The earth still bore claw marks. Trees near the perimeter were scorched or shattered. One tent had a large smear of black ichor trailing into it, half dried.
Samuel exhaled through his nose.
"This… wasn't a fight," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
"It was survival."
Beside him, Lyra remained still, her expression unreadable. As if she'd seen all this before. As if this kind of aftermath no longer moved her.
A grim thought slithered into his mind.
What kind of world is this… where this is normal?!
His thoughts barely settled before a sudden, burning pain exploded across his back. He gasped, a sharp cry tearing from his throat.
Spinning around, he saw a white-robed disciple standing there, whip raised—still dripping with the sting of his lash.
Lyra stumbled beside him, wincing, clutching her side where the whip had struck hard.
The white-robed disciple's voice cut through the air, harsh and unforgiving.
"Don't just stand there! Work!" he barked, eyes cold and hard.
Another crack of the whip lashed across Samuel's back. The pain blazed, scorching flesh and spirit alike.
Anger flared wildly in his chest—he wanted to lash out, to tear this man down with his bare hands.
But before he could move, a firm hand gripped his arm—Lyra's, steady and resolute.
"Don't," she said quietly, eyes locked on his.
The world narrowed to the sting on his skin, the bitter taste of helplessness. With slow, heavy steps, they turned away from the harsh glare of the camp, moving toward the woods.
There, the scent of pine and damp earth pressed in around them as they began to cut firewood—silent, broken, and bruised.
There, the scent of pine and damp earth pressed in around them as they began to cut firewood—silent, broken, and bruised.
But Samuel's eyes never left the camp.
Through the thick trees, he glimpsed the white-robed disciple—cold, cruel, unaware of the storm gathering behind those burning eyes.
'Just you wait,'
Samuel swore deep inside, his grip tightening around the rough handle of the axe.
'I will kill you with my own hands.'
'Mark my words, bastard. Death will come slow, and it will come from me.'
Suddenly, Lyra's voice cut through the thick silence—calm, sharp like a blade sliding over steel.
"Have you cursed enough?"
Samuel flinched, startled out of his dark thoughts.
"What?"
Her eyes narrowed, cold and piercing.
"It's written all over your face. The fire, the hatred—you're drowning in it."
He clenched his jaw, swallowing the bitterness.
"Why can't you sense him? That bastard—how does he hide?"
A slow, dark laugh slipped from Lyra's lips, mocking and low.
"Must have used some concealment spell. Trying to play the invisible game."
Samuel's lips twitched into a bitter smirk.
"To bully a black robe? Funny."
***
The call for dinner cut through the camp like a knife through old cloth.
Disciples drifted toward the center like moths to a dying flame — exhausted, famished, their faces hollow with fatigue and grime.
The air was thick with smoke and silence. The only sound was the quiet slosh of soup ladled into cracked bowls.
The broth was thin, barely clinging to the taste of the beast they'd slain earlier — more bone than meat, more memory than substance.
It steamed in the cold air, smelling of iron and damp fur.
The black robes did the work, eyes dulled from long hours and longer thoughts. The white robes, as always, stayed clean — prowling along the fringes like they owned the dirt everyone else bled into, barking orders like it was their sacred duty to make others miserable.
Groups formed without words. Little clusters of familiarity. Or maybe just survival.
Everyone kept close to someone they wouldn't mind dying next to.
Samuel and Lyra found a fire near the edge of the clearing. Not too close to the center, not too far from the trees. Just enough distance to think.
Sam sat down without speaking, the wood of the log rough beneath him. The others barely acknowledged them — too tired to care, or too used to new faces passing through like smoke.
After a moment, Samuel stirred his soup, then spoke. His voice was quiet. Almost casual. But it cut through the hush like flint on steel.
"So… what happened last night?"
A pause. Then a laugh — dry and brittle — from a wiry man whose face looked like it had lost a few wars.
"Last night?" he echoed, voice rasping.
"You really wanna know? Thought everyone who missed it should count their blessings."
He sipped from his bowl, like it helped wash the memory down.His eyes, though… they gleamed with the kind of thrill that only comes from surviving something you probably shouldn't have.
"There was a Thunder Beast," he said finally. "Rank two low Grade. Big bastard. Claws like spears, and a face only a nightmare could love."
He chuckled bitterly.
"Thing didn't come alone either. Had a whole damn entourage — snarling, howling, tearing through our wards like they were made of paper. We barely had time to scream."
Another disciple — stocky, scarred, and dead-eyed — snorted.
"Scrambling around like headless chickens. Thought I was about to become a chew toy."
Samuel tilted his head. His eyes hadn't blinked once.
"And then?"
The woman across from him — older, her features weathered but sharp — gave a small nod.
"Then Aurion came."
Samuel raised an eyebrow.
"Aurion?"
The scarred man leaned forward slightly, like the name demanded reverence.
"The golden disciple," he said.
His tone shifted — still rough, but threaded with reluctant awe.
"Flash of lightning in human form. The beasts stopped the second he appeared. It was like the air held its breath. And then…"
He mimed a strike, fast and final.
"Slaughter. Pure, elegant slaughter. Like watching a storm dance through the dark."
He paused.
"…But the rank two got away. Wounded, yeah, but still breathing."
Samuel stared at the flames, letting the silence settle.
Then, he spoke again — soft, but cold enough to quiet the group all over again.
"I have a question."
They turned toward him. Slowly. Carefully.
"You fought that thing, right?" he asked the man with the scars.
"…Yeah," came the wary answer.
"And you couldn't kill it."
"…No."
Samuel's voice dropped. There was steel in it now.
"Then why the hell are we camped here?"
The words hung like a guillotine, poised.
"Don't tell me you think it's just… gone. That it won't come back with its pack to finish what it started."
The fire crackled.
No one replied.
Then, finally, a voice broke through.
Low. Bitter.
"…Because Aurion wanted it that way."