Chapter XX – Aftermath beneath the Red Sky
Lucian looked toward the ridge.
Through the fog came the glint of armor, the shape of men running down the slope.
Rodrik's voice carried through the haze, rough and desperate.
"Hold fast! Find them! Move!"
Lucian exhaled and let his body sink back into the mud. The strength left him all at once, stolen by exhaustion too deep to name. Above, the clouds began to break apart, and through the cracks came a faint, red shimmer. The light of the coming moon. The Crimson Moon. Its edge bled through the mist like a wound.
He blinked once, twice. The shouts grew louder. The clatter of armor. The scrape of shields against rock. But the sounds felt far away, like they came from another world.
His head rolled to one side. Auron lay motionless beside the wreck of a wagon, body encased in frost that refused to melt. His breath fogged in thin, uneven clouds. The boy's eyes were open, glassy, caught between awareness and shock. Around him, soldiers staggered, half-mad from pain and cold. Taren knelt over Garrick's body, hands trembling as he pressed bandages against black veins that pulsed with divine rot.
"Breathe," Taren whispered. "Please, old man, breathe."
Rhel stood beside them, his sword arm splinted with a torn standard. He stared at the horizon, jaw locked. The world around them felt wrong; the air heavy, the ground humming faintly, the remnants of two divine powers still poisoning everything they touched.
Then came the thunder of hooves.
Through the gray curtain of fog, the first riders broke into view soldiers in gleaming plate, their banners tattered but proud. The emblem of the twin griffins of House Arvel flapped in the wind. At their head rode a figure that caught the dim light like fire.
Rodrik Arvel.
His reddish hair burned against the gray dawn. He was young, mid-twenties, but carried himself with the certainty of someone born to command. His armor, half-burnished steel, half-scarred leather, bore the marks of countless campaigns. His eyes scanned the devastation in silence.
He reined his horse to a stop and spoke, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
"By the demons of hell… what in all the gods' names happened here?"
The soldiers fanned out around him. Some dismounted immediately to tend to the wounded; others began forming search lines across the battlefield. Their movement brought order where only chaos had reigned.
Rodrik's second-in-command approached. "Sir, I count fifteen survivors. Perhaps fewer. The terrain's unstable, half of it's turned to pure ice."
Rodrik dismounted, boots sinking into the mix of ash and frost. He crouched, running his fingers across the cracked ground. It was warm. Beneath the surface, faint veins of gold light pulsed like dying embers.
"Divine residue," he murmured. "Decay and frost." His gaze flicked toward the shattered ridge. "A Tier Five event."
He rose, jaw tightening. "Get purification wards set. Nothing here leaves untouched."
Lucian tried to sit up. His body protested every motion. "Rodrik… you came."
Rodrik turned. The severity in his face softened for an instant. "Lucian. You look like hell."
Lucian tried to answer but a cough wracked through him. Rodrik caught him by the shoulder before he fell. "Easy. You'll speak when your lungs are fully healed."
Rhel stepped forward, saluting with his uninjured arm. "Lord Arvel. We held the line as long as we could. Then the beasts arrived."
Rodrik's eyes narrowed. "beasts?"
"Ursa," Rhel said. His voice cracked. "The king of the Northern Wilds."
Taren added quietly, "And another. A beast born, Asad Al. The Lord of Fangs."
Rodrik looked between them, trying to read madness or truth. "And where are they now?"
Lucian's gaze drifted toward the distant ridge. The ground there was cracked open, still steaming. "Gone," he said. "hopefully they are gone."
Rodrik followed his eyes, then glanced back. "why could ursa be here, this time of year it should be hibernating? Did someone bring it here?"
Lucian hesitated. "Auron."
Rodrik's brow furrowed. "The young one?"
Rhel nodded. "He fought like a man possessed. It saved us. But it nearly killed him."
Rodrik's jaw clenched. "You summoned a 4 star beast? No, ursa is a high 5 star threat. Are you all out of your minds?"
Lucian's voice was faint. "We were out of options."
Rodrik straightened, anger flashing behind his eyes, then fading into something heavier. "You're lucky the gods above must really like you." He turned, gesturing to his soldiers. "Set the healers on the wounded. No one moves out of here."
He crouched beside Garrick. The old knight's breath rattled, his chest streaked with spreading veins of black. Rodrik uncorked a vial of silver fluid and poured it over the wound. The corruption hissed, retreating for a moment before slowing its spread.
"That'll hold for a day," Rodrik said softly. "No longer."
Taren bowed his head. "That's more than we had."
Rodrik rose, brushing frost from his glove. "Gather the living. This place is a grave. We march south by dawn."
The soldiers moved quickly, efficient and silent. They laid the dead in rows, marking each with a strip of cloth. Someone found Finn beneath a fallen beam; breathing, barely. Rhel carried him himself to the wagons, muttering prayers under his breath.
Lucian leaned back against the wreckage, half-awake. His vision swam, colors blurring together. He thought he saw shadows still moving at the edge of the fog, shapes like beasts, but when he blinked they were gone. Only silence remained.
Rodrik stood at the center of it all, directing his men with quick, sure gestures. Even in the ruin, he radiated control. When he finally turned back to Lucian, his tone was quiet but sharp. "You sent a distress signal for me."
Lucian nodded weakly. "Three days ago. I found out the beast born ."
Rodrik gave a small, humorless smile. "You always did see storms before they broke."
He exhaled and looked around the field again. "Three hundred men with me. We were tracing the missing caravans when your magic signal found us. If not for that message, we'd be two days too late."
Lucian tried to answer but his throat closed. Rodrik knelt, voice low. "Rest,brother. You've earned it."
Lucian's eyes drifted upward. Through the thinning fog, he could see the red light of the coming moon. It bled across the valley, staining every surface with its color. Even the ice glowed faintly crimson.
He felt something move beneath the ground faint, like a heartbeat. The residue of beings refusing to die.
His breath slowed. The sounds of men shouting grew distant again.
Rhel calling for stretchers. Taren arguing with a healer. Rodrik issuing quiet orders.
Then darkness folded over him.
The last thing he heard was Rodrik's voice:
"Hold fast. Get them ready. The beasts have had their war. It's our turn to clean the mess."
******
Hours later, the camp of House Arvel burned with the dim, orange light of ward-lanterns. Purifiers hissed where they'd been driven into the soil.
The air smelled faintly of incense and blood. Rodrik stood apart from the others, surveying the ridge. His armor was unbuckled, his hair damp with frost.
Behind him, his lieutenant approached. "Sir, the mana concentration is stabilizing. But the readings—"
"I know," Rodrik interrupted. "They'll stay cursed for months."
He looked down at his gauntlets, then at the still figure of Auron resting beside the infirmary wagons. "That boy…" He trailed off. "He carries something strange."
The lieutenant shifted uneasily. "Should I watch over him?"
Rodrik's gaze lingered a moment longer. "Yes. But don't touch him. If he wakes, I want to hear his side."
The man saluted and left.
Rodrik stood alone for a long while, listening to the wind. The valley was silent again, but it wasn't peace. It was the kind of silence that came after something sacred had broken.
When he finally turned back toward the tents, the crimson moon had risen fully above the clouds. Its light fell over the field like a thin, red veil; soft, almost beautiful, if not for what it meant.
Though auron and Lucian had survived but they had through themselves in deep trouble
And somewhere in the dark, under frost and ash, the faint echo of Ursa's heartbeat pulsed once more; distant, dying, but not gone.