-Tan'Thalon, Noble district-
Dawn rose over the spires of Tan'Thalon, painting the buildings and streets in pastels. From the noble district it was quite a sight seeing the sun slowly climb over the Arc Wall. As golden rays shot around, the wall itself seemed to defy it with the glittering Lazulli inlays. The Moon-Glass Salon didn't witness this spectacle. It was hidden in the streets and had always been more of a night club. As such it was quiet at this hour, its great opal windows reflecting only the lantern-lit streets below. Perfume clung to the air like silk. Nobles laughed in distant alcoves, drunk on spiced wine and gossip, but the far corner booth — the one swathed in indigo drapes — was curtained off and marked with a single, flickering candle. Eldarion hesitated for only a moment. He always came here when he wanted to feel important. Desired. Obeyed. Which was basically all the time. No, he came here when he needed to feel heard. And tonight, someone waited for him. He slipped behind the drapes. Selvara sat with her back straight, gloved fingers resting lightly on a marble cup. Her hair shimmered like violet stormlight even in the dim, and her lila eyes followed Eldarion as though she had known the exact second he would arrive.
"Paladin," she purred. "You look… pleased with yourself."
Eldarion smirked, settling across from her.
"In the last fortnight I have secured three additional council votes, two noble houses have pledged steel for my initiatives, and the others—" He waved a hand. "—they begin to see reason. They know Tan'thalon needs a firmer hand than Maranth's dithering."
Selvara tilted her head, studying him with controlled amusement.
"I see. And how did you secure these votes?"
Eldarion leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"By reminding them of what the desert has already taken. And what will be taken if the council's weakness continues. The arc wall must be reinforced, the Wardens must answer to stronger authority, and the Diviner—"
Selvara's brow arched faintly. "The blind woman who embarrassed you."
Eldarion stiffened. "She is not important."
"Mm," Selvara murmured. "You speak her name with such venom for someone unimportant."
He scowled. "She clouds Talia's judgment. That alone makes her dangerous. Once my position in the council is assured, I'll see to it that her influence is—neutralized."
Selvara's smile was small, elegant, and predatory.
"You are learning, Eldarion. Influence is a sickness. A city dies from softness long before steel is ever drawn."
The compliment eased his posture. He exhaled, pleased with himself again, unaware of the faint neon pink shimmer coiling behind Selvara's irises — a remnant of her illusions.
"Continue rallying them," she said softly. "You will need at least half the Chamber behind you if you intend to redirect the Wardens' authority. And there are… interesting developments that may help your case."
Eldarion's eyes sharpened. "Developments?"
Selvara swirled the wine in her cup, watching the liquid as though it whispered secrets.
"Fresh reports," she said, "from the desert."
Eldarion felt a subtle thrill — a mixture of ambition and dread. "What kind of reports?"
"The kind," Selvara murmured, "that speak of the sands moving again. Of villages swallowed overnight. Of structures… rising. Something is stirring out there, Paladin. Something that will terrify the noble houses — unless they have someone strong, someone decisive to rally behind."
Eldarion leaned in, breath quickening. "You mean to say this could push the undecided councilors to my side?"
"Oh," she whispered, "it will do far more than that."
For a heartbeat, the candle sputtered. A ripple passed across Selvara's face — almost like a second expression flickered beneath her skin. Eldarion blinked, but the moment was gone.
"You will have my full report soon," she said, voice a silken thread. "For now? Keep pushing the council. And leave the desert… to me."
Eldarion did not see the faint smile she hid behind her glass — the smile of someone whose trap was almost complete. He only heard what he wanted to hear. And Selvara made certain of that.
-Tan'Thalon, Western Gate-
By the time Calenelda, Talia and Foxglove reached Tan'Thalon, the air had cooled to a knife's edge. Spires of white marble laced with veins of gold and obsidian rose behind the great Arc wall, each tower catching the light of dawn and throwing it back as fire. From a distance, it looked divine. Foxglove noticed more details. In a city as loud as Tan'Thalon her echolocation provided a detailed view of her surroundings. Cracks lined the bridges that arched between the temple districts. The banners fluttered in the wind. And beneath the hymns echoing through the courtyards, Talia could hear something else — the murmured rhythm of dissent, too soft to name but too persistent to ignore.
"Your home looks… tired," Foxglove murmured.
Calenelda adjusted her cloak, hiding the faint glow that still lingered beneath her skin. "It's not tired. It's remembering."
Talia glanced sidelong at her. "You mean the city or you?"
"Both," the Diviner said with a wry smile.
They reached the outer gates, where the sentries stood — paladins in white and gold armor, helms etched with sunbursts. One of them lowered his spear slightly as he recognized Talia.
"Captain Suri-Farah," he said with a stiff nod. "The Council expected your patrol back a week ago."
"Detours," Talia said simply. "We found something south of the dunes."
His gaze drifted to Calenelda and lingered. "And… this would be?"
"You mean to tell me you don't recognize Tan'Thalon's hero?" Calenelda replied before Talia even had a chance to.
The sentry's eyes narrowed slightly, catching the faint emberlight beneath Calenelda's sleeve. He stepped aside without another word — but the silence that followed was thick with judgment. As they entered, Foxglove lowered her head, her wings hidden beneath her cloak.
They reached the inner sanctum by midday. It was built around a vast open atrium, where a pool of still water reflected the city's Council hall. The air was cool and fragrant with myrrh and jasmine. But beneath the serenity was tension — the kind that pressed into the ribs like held breath. A familiar voice greeted them from the colonnade.
"Diviner."
Eldarion stood in the shade, robes immaculate, his hair bound in gold. His smile was perfectly polite — and utterly devoid of warmth.
"Lord Eldarion," Calenelda said flatly. "I didn't expect you to come yourself."
"Oh, I insisted," he said, stepping closer. "After all, it's not every day Tan'Thalon's hero returns from the desert dragging an unregistered Nyxir and a story about a god's corpse."
Talia bristled. "We didn't come to argue jurisdiction."
Eldarion's eyes flicked to her, sharp and appraising. "No, you came because she told you to. You've always been easily led by charm, haven't you, Talia?"
"Watch your tone," she said, hand tightening on her sword.
Calenelda placed a hand on her arm — a silent warning. "It's fine. Let him play his games."
Eldarion's smile tightened. "You haven't changed."
"I have," Calenelda said softly. "That's what frightens you."
For a moment, his expression faltered — something cold flickering behind the mask. Then it was gone.
"The Council is waiting," he said. "They'll want a full account. Of everything you think you found. Including your… experiments with divine remnants."
Talia's jaw clenched. "You mean the part where she saved an entire village?"
Eldarion didn't look at her. His gaze remained locked on Calenelda, assessing, calculating. "I mean the part where she walked into a cursed temple and came back glowing like a heretic's prayer."
Foxglove shifted uneasily. Calenelda only smiled — calm, unbothered, almost dangerous.
"Then let them look," she said. "Let them decide if what they fear is corruption or proof."
Eldarion studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a faint bow, he gestured toward the Spire.
"Very well. The Council awaits."
As he turned to lead the way, Talia leaned closer to Calenelda, her voice low. "He's lying about something."
"I know," Calenelda murmured. "He's been weaving his threads through this place for months. Maybe years."
"Why?"
Calenelda's eyes followed Eldarion's back as he walked ahead, his shadow stretching long across the marble floor. "Because I have something he can't manipulate."
"Your power?"
Calenelda smiled faintly. "No. You."
Talia blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"He doesn't understand our bond," Calenelda said quietly. "He never could. And people like him hate what they can't control."
Talia felt the weight of that settle between them as they followed him into the Council's chamber — a cathedral of magitech: obsidian pillars shot through with Lazulli veins, the vaulted ceiling alive with shifting holograms of Xaerona's borders. Lords, generals, and artificers filled the benches, their voices a constant hum until the chamber warden called order. Among them, more than one pair of eyes already gleamed with Eldarion's quiet influence. Talia stood rigid at attention, armor still dusted with desert grit. Her jaw was set like stone as she recounted the storm and the skirmish, careful never to let her voice falter. Confronted with a gathering of leaders again, her walls shot right back up. But every time the Diviner spoke—measured, calm, her blind gaze angled toward the gathered lords—Talia's stomach twisted. The Diviner didn't embellish. She simply was. Unshaken. Unflinching. The council leaned in whenever she spoke. And then came the inevitable question.
"Paladin Surifarah, reports say you were separated. How is it the two of you alone returned when so many fell?"
Talia stiffened, choosing her words with care. "We held. That's all. Nothing more to be said."
But the Diviner tilted her head, her lips curling faintly.
"She's too modest. Without her shield, neither of us would be standing here."
The council murmured approval. Talia's face burned, her fists tightening at her sides. Praise from the Diviner in front of them felt like a dagger slipped beneath her armor. She wanted to shout, to cut through the smile she couldn't stand. Instead, she bit her tongue and bowed her head, her silence sharper than any retort. The rivalry simmered, visible to the sharp-eyed, but not spoken aloud. Yet the chamber could feel it—a current between them, volatile and unresolved.
The chamber hushed as Archon Velareth, eldest of the council, rose. His Lazulli-inlaid staff struck the floor once, and all side conversations died. But it was not the staff, but the man behind it that had this effect. He was of age, with a beard to match and a posture of authority. Just like Maranth.
"You return from the western road with heavy losses. Yet two of our most promising scions stand before us alive. We will not waste what Xaerona has preserved." His gaze swept over them, sharp as a blade. "You will not march apart again. From this day, your strengths are bound together in service."
A low ripple of approval moved through the chamber. Talia felt the blood rise hot behind her ears. Bound? With her? She knew she needed to anchor the Diviner now, but to have the verdict laid on her by the council?
Eldarion leaned forward from his seat, smirking faintly. "A wise match of temperaments, I'm sure."
The council chuckled. Talia ground her teeth, shoulders locked. The Diviner, of course, only inclined her head with serene acceptance.
"As the council wills."
Talia muttered under her breath, just loud enough for her rival alone:
"You'd enjoy this."
The Diviner's lips curved. "Not as much as you think."
But to the council, they bowed in unison. The verdict was sealed.
Hung in the vaulted air like a spell not yet dispelled. The chamber, filled with nobles, officers, and scholars, rippled with undercurrents: whispers behind hands, sidelong glances sharp with speculation. Talia kept her chin high, but she felt every eye dragging over her. Not admiration. Not just suspicion. Calculation. From the council benches, Eldarion's smirk never faded. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.
"Joint envoys," he murmured to the man beside him, not bothering to lower his voice. "Two strong wills bound to one leash. That won't fray at all." The men chuckled.
Talia's jaw clenched, her knuckles whitening at her side. Beside her, the Diviner stood in silence, hands loosely clasped at her waist. She didn't shift or fidget under the scrutiny, but her stillness only seemed to unnerve the room more. She looked like someone who knew more than she should, and it made the whisperers lean in closer to one another. A young councilor, bolder than most, tilted his head toward the Archon.
"Are we certain they can function together? Their… philosophies… have not aligned in the past."
Velareth did not turn his head. His staff struck once more, ringing out like iron on glass. "They will learn."
The matter, in his tone, was closed. Yet the whispers didn't die. Some wondered aloud if the council meant to test them, to break one or both. Others thought it strategy — a paladin's iron and an elementalist's subtlety in tandem, the perfect symbol of Xaerona's might. Talia shifted her weight. Her eyes, against her will, flicked toward the woman at her side. And the Diviner — though her gaze was blind, fixed on nothing — tilted her head just slightly. Almost as if she felt Talia's stare. The faintest quirk of her lips, a flash of that playful tease in her eyes appeared before she turned back toward the council dais, serene as ever. Talia snapped her gaze away, heart hammering. How? She was reckless and fearless now. So how could she act so serene now? Before the chamber could empty, Eldarion couldn't help but reveal his newest information to the court.
"You return after weeks of silence, Diviner, with tales of a buried temple and a god's echo. Explain to this council what you found beneath the sands."
Velareth struck his staff to the floor, the sound echoing like ringing iron through the vast chamber. The sound made even Eldarion cringe.
"Lord Eldarion. You will speak when given the word." Velareth spoke without needing amplification. "Though he does have a point. Can you give us an explanation, Diviner?".
Calenelda's voice was steady. "Ofcourse. We found what was once a sanctuary — corrupted by centuries of worship gone wrong. Ba'Ham's creations were buried there, and their hunger remained. The temple's memory was alive, and it wanted minds to feed on."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. One of the priests leaned forward. "You speak as if a temple can think."
"It could," Calenelda said. "It remembered the gods. And it wanted to be remembered in return."
Eldarion's voice slid into the pause, smooth as oil on water. "How convenient, then, that you were the one it chose to reveal itself to."
Talia's head snapped toward him, but Calenelda only tilted hers slightly, eyes half-lidded. "You think I sought its favor?"
"I think it marked you," Eldarion replied, his tone respectful, but his words sharp as glass. "You bear its touch — light in your veins, an aura that burns even my priest's wards. And you claim this… change came from May'Jahan?"
"I didn't claim anything," she said. "Only that I survived."
Eldarion turned toward the Council, his voice rising like a sermon. "Brothers and sisters, listen to her words. She admits the temple lives — a remnant of Ba'Ham, the betrayer god — and that she carries its fire. Can we be certain that what stands before us is still mortal?"
The chamber grew colder. Talia stepped forward before she could stop herself.
"She saved us!" she snapped. "She held that place up with her bare hands to stop it from sinking, so we could escape. If that's not proof of who she is—"
"Proof of what?" Eldarion cut in smoothly. "That she is powerful? Or that she wields power no mortal should?"
Calenelda's fingers tightened on her staff. "Careful, Eldarion. Jealousy doesn't suit the faithful."
He smiled. "And arrogance suits you too well."
A different elder spoke — an old man with eyes clouded by light. "You say the temple remembered Ba'Ham. Then what of the Nyxir you brought? The winged one. Was it his doing too?"
Talia felt the tension spike beside her. Foxglove waited outside the chamber — Eldarion had insisted she remain unseen.
"They were victims," Calenelda said. "The Nyxir were never Ba'Ham's creation. They were his prisoners. His experiments."
Eldarion's tone softened, falsely sympathetic. "Ah. So the creatures of shadow are merely misunderstood, the cursed temples victims, and the fires of Ba'Ham… redeemable?"
The implication hit the Council like a spark.
Calenelda met his gaze, her voice dropping low. "You twist words like a man who's forgotten what truth feels like."
Eldarion didn't flinch. "Truth doesn't need to feel. It only needs to burn."
For a moment, the light in the chamber flared — the crystals pulsing faintly with divine resonance. Ba'Ham's presence was close, drawn by the invocation. Several elders murmured prayers. Calenelda's own aura flickered in answer, the faint emberlight beneath her skin reacting — not submission, but resistance.
Velareth's gaze sharpened. "Your power responds to Ba'Ham's name."
"Because it knows what it defied," Calenelda answered.
Eldarion moved closer, the faintest curl of triumph at his lips. "Or because it recognizes him."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Talia took one step forward, her voice steady, cutting through the tension.
"Enough. You all know me. You trained me. You've seen what kind of knight I am. I stood beside her through that storm, through that temple. I watched her risk her life again and again to protect others. Whatever changed her — it wasn't Ba'Ham. It was sacrifice."
Velareth's eyes softened slightly. "You believe her untainted, then?"
Talia hesitated only a heartbeat. "I do."
"Then you'll stand witness to her actions from this point forward?"
"Yes."
Eldarion's smile was faint, polite — and dangerous. "How convenient. The paladin whose light flares only when she looks at her."
The words cut deeper than any spell. Talia froze, the faintest flush rising to her face.
Calenelda's eyes darkened. "Enough, Eldarion."
But the damage was done. The chamber was whispering now — soft, scandalous tones beneath the pretense of piety. Eldarion inclined his head, voice measured again.
"Forgive me, Council. But when affection clouds judgment, divine corruption can hide in plain sight."
Before more damage could be done, the doors swayed wide open. A familiar step and accompanying staff breaking the rumors. High Councilor Maranth and Councilor Veyra entered the hall. Unlike Eldarion, Maranth wasn't silenced by the Archon.
"The Diviner speaks true, Archon Velareth." Maranth began, his tone ever calm. "We have reports of cultist activity and experimentation that mirrors the timestamps shown on the desert reports."
He continued his pace towards the Archon, presenting him with the evidence.
"These have been confirmed?". The Archon inquired, leaning closer.
"By both our source on site and the data analyst. She has also provided extensive reports on the ruins of Bahk'Ehmet that confirm their findings."
Veyra activated a small orb she got from Shyra. Strings of light shot out that weaved together above them to form a display. A map of the desert, with the ruins at the center. On the charts, a clear surge of magical energy showed right at the center.
"This carries new light." Velareth said, stroking his beard.
A new wave of murmurs and gossip rose at the tone of secrecy. It was clear that Maranth and Velareth had blind faith in each other. Of course Eldarion came forward with a demand.
"You speak of evidence. This council has the right to see these reports." His words were laced with barely contained venom.
Velareth raised a hand, silencing the murmurs. "Enough. The Council will deliberate. Calenelda, you will remain within the city's bounds until our decision is made. You may continue your studies under supervision. Talia, as her witness, you will be responsible for her conduct."
Talia nodded tightly, jaw set. Eldarion's gaze lingered on them both as the Council dismissed the assembly.
"I do hope you're right about her," he said quietly, passing close. "Because if you're wrong, Captain… your faith will burn with hers."
He moved on before she could respond, robes whispering like ash. Talia stiffened, refusing to look at him. She stepped forward, heels clicking against stone, but couldn't stop herself from noticing that the Diviner's stride matched hers — perfectly measured, as though they already marched in rhythm.
"Well," she said softly. "That went almost as well as I expected."
Talia glared at her. "He's trying to destroy you."
"I know."
"And you're smiling?"
"I'm smiling," Calenelda said, "because it means he's afraid. You don't try to cage what you don't fear."
Talia's anger faltered, replaced by reluctant admiration — and deeper worry. As they stepped out into the colonnade, the afternoon sun burned low, reflecting off the mirrored spires like liquid fire. Somewhere beneath the city, a pair of green eyes opened.
-Tan'Thalon, somewhere beneath the city-
Deep beneath the Lower Ring – below even the catacombs – a room glowed with Lazulli sconces, their light distorted by illusion spells. Shadows rippled unnaturally across the walls, like black serpents. Selvara stood over a floating Lazulli mapstone showing Tan'Thalon's veins and warehouses, a dozen illusions drifted above its surface. Two of her trusted lieutenants knelt before her, both clad in vibrant red cloaks with hoods drawn low. One a scarred illusionist and the other an information broker. The air in the room hummed faintly, as if listening.
Selvara's intonation was quiet and dangerous. "Marrek. Report."
The scarred one bowed. "The Iron Vanguard struck Warehouse Twelve shortly after midnight. Twenty soldiers. Commander Serenya Kael at their head."
Selvara narrowed her eyes.
"Serenya." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Of course they sent their iron saint."
Night had fallen over Tan'Thalon's Lower district, the lanterns lighting up like stars. Most of the city was quiet now. Save for a Lazulli storage warehouse. Serenya and twenty Iron Vanguard soldiers advanced in silence, their armor muted with cloth wrappings. The air smelled faintly of ozone and dust. They forced the doors open to find the interior stacked with crates and faintly glowing shards. It was quiet. Too quiet.
Serenya spoke low to her captains. "Seal exits. No fire. Check crates — quickly."
The vanguard moved with trained precision, checking for hidden caches. Captain Elira cracked a crate, pulling out Lazulli shards — etched with a closed-eye sigil. Before she could speak, the warehouse lanterns flickered, then guttered out. The Lazulli glowed stronger, pulsing.
The other robed figure spoke up now. "They seized the outer crates but did not breach the inner vaults. The sigils held long enough for Arcanist Vaal to intervene. He… demonstrated considerable potency."
Selvara walked around the mapstone, Lazulli reflections sliding across her skin like living serpents.
A smooth, mocking voice sounded through the warehouse. "Ah… the Iron Vanguard. So predictable. So proud. Steel, shields, discipline. Against inevitability."
A figure stepped out from the shadows, Arcanist Vaal, his white robes ripple with Lazulli threads that crackled around him. His blond hair cut short on one side, but the other following the flows of his robes. His hands were already weaving entropy sigils in the air. Sparks of disintegration hissed where the symbols hung. His face was calm, almost bored. Serenya recognized him as an arcanist.
As she drew her blade, her voice turned like iron. "Vanguard! Form wall!".
Shields locked, a shining barrier of sound and discipline. Serenya stood at the front, sword raised.
"You've stolen from the wall. You've bled the city. Surrender and face judgment."
Vaal's lips turned to a thin smile. "Judgment? I am judgment. Behold Ba'ham's truth."
"Tell me exactly what Kerryth demonstrated, Sillis" Selvara wanted to know.
"Entropy rites. Fully realized. He reduced shields to rust, blades to dust. Serenya's line broke twice, yet they held long enough to escape. She herself was injured." Sillis spoke with a smile.
Vaal slammed his palms forward. A wave of entropy rolled out — steel shrieked as shield edges corroded, weapons pitted and crumbled. Soldiers cried out as the very steel in their armor sparked and fractured. The Vanguard line staggered back, but held.
Captain Varros gritted his teeth. "Shields failing, Commander!"
Serenya snarled. "Hold them! Hold—!"
Another blast followed, causing a shield to dissolve in one soldier's grip, leaving him exposed — the entropy wave tore through his cuirass. He screamed and dropped. Serenya stepped forward, slashing at Vaal — but her blade met a shimmer of unraveling force. The steel rusted in her hand, breaking mid-swing.
Vaal mocked them. "See? Even iron bows before entropy. What hope has your wall, your council, your goddess?"
Serenya's captains dragged her back as Vaal lifted a Lazulli shard and twisted it into a crackling orb of raw energy. The warehouse shook, beams splintering. Workers screamed and scattered outside. Serenya tried to rally.
Her voice roared. "Fall back! Shields around the wounded! MOVE!"
The Vanguard retreated in formation, battered but not broken, dragging their fallen. Serenya was last to leave, holding her ruined blade in one fist. Vaal did not pursue — he simply watched, letting them go, confident of his dominance.
Vaal called after her. "Run, little vanguard. Bring more steel. I will unmake it all the same."
Outside, in the rain, the Vanguard regrouped. Armor ruined, morale shaken. Serenya breathed hard, clutching her bleeding side where entropy tore through her breastplate. Her jaw was set, but her eyes were dark with the knowledge: against this magic, steel alone will not hold.
Selvara let out a soft laugh. "A shame he didn't kill her… but fear will do. The city will whisper of this defeat. The council will taste panic."
She lifted a Lazulli shard — it flared at her touch, pulsing with a heartbeat that wasn't hers.
"And the shipment?"
Sillis hesitated in her answer. "Partially lost. The Vanguard seized four crates… but the experimental shards remain hidden. Vaal relocated them once the soldiers withdrew."
Selvara nodded, thoughtful. "Good. They have enough to be afraid — but not enough to understand." She turned sharply. "Did they see the prototypes?"
This time Marrek spoke up. "No. The… reanimated ones were not deployed. You ordered restraint."
Selvara's reply was colder than ice. "Because timing matters, Marrek. Unleashing perfection too early dulls its impact. The Architect Below requires patience."
A ripple passed through the Lazulli sconces — as if the name resonated in the stone. Both lieutenants bowed their heads.
"The Vanguard will report the attack to the council. Serenya Kael will press for new armaments." Sillis said.
"And the council will finally taste what it means to be powerless. They will look for strength. Leadership. Someone willing to act when they cannot."
Selvara said before she stepped back into the shadows, her silhouette merging with the Lazulli glow.
"Now… tell me of the nobles."
Marrek adjusted his robes. At least his illusions did. "Eldarion speaks loudly and gathers support. Two houses pledged him their votes this morning. Another is cautious but listening."
Selvara's smile sharpened like a blade.
"Eldarion believes he is recruiting them for himself. But he is gathering my chorus. My influence. My future council."
She glided a hand over the mapstone — Eldarion's name flared faintly in Lazulli, like a tether.
"He is almost ready."
Sillis glanced up, fidgeting with her fingers out of nervousness. "And the desert reports? The ones from our agents?"
Selvara raised her eyes — and the temperature in the room dipped. The Lazulli veins in the walls throbbed once, like an enormous unseen heart. Then, she lowered her voice and spoke in a reverent tone.
"The sands move again. Villages swallowed. Monoliths rising. The Architect's work spreading."
She turned, cloak whispering behind her. "Eldarion will want to hear this. He hungers for threats he can conquer. For people he can 'save.'"
Her laugh was soft, almost musical.
"And he never notices the hand guiding him toward them."
She stepped away from the mapstone, shadows curling at her heels.
"Prepare my salon chamber. Send word to our paladin. He will come — jealous, bruised, desperate to feel important."
She paused at the door, her voice dropping to a silken threat:
"And when he does… we will feed him just enough truth to make him dangerous."
The Lazulli lights dimmed with her departure. The illusionists bowed deeply as she slipped into the corridor, already shaping her face into the serene smile Eldarion believes.
-Tan'Thalon: The Council chamber-
After the council, the chamber had emptied into murmurs and the shuffle of silk and armor. Talia had broken away first, refusing to glance back, her stride sharp and purposeful, leaving the Diviner confused. Each click of her boots against the stone was a promise: walls rebuilt, faster, higher, stronger.
Joint envoys. Bound together. The words itched like shackles. She told herself it wasn't the council's decree she hated. It was her. The Diviner — infuriatingly calm, infuriatingly composed again somehow, infuriatingly reckless — who seemed untouchable no matter how tightly the world pressed in. Talia reached her quarters and threw her cloak onto a chair. The silence pressed down on her. For a moment, she caught herself tracing the memory of sand still in her hair, of blind eyes that saw too much, of a hand clasping hers in the storm. She shook her head hard and busied herself with tearing off her gauntlets. No. Don't. That's weakness. Her walls rose higher.
The Diviner did not retreat to her chambers at once. She lingered in the vaulted hallway outside, one hand brushing along the stone as though tracing its pulse. The council's verdict rang in her chest, not as chains, but as something stranger: a thread she could not untangle. She remembered the way Talia had stared, and how quickly she had looked away. The paladin's heartbeat in the storm had been louder than the sand itself, fierce and unyielding — yet trembling when pressed too close. The Diviner sat cross-legged on the stone surrounding the water party later, palms splayed wide, listening to the city's rhythm. But it was not Tan'Thalon's pulse that distracted her. It was Talia's absence, heavy in her chest like silence after a song. She frowned, lips tightening. Why does she run from me? Why does she hide? Directness had always been her weapon. She had never learned the art of subtle words or dancing around meaning. She only knew how to name things as they were. And she wanted to name this. Whatever this pull between them was — heat in the air, sharp as their clashes, soft as that silence beneath the storm. But Talia feared it. She could sense that. Feared it enough to rebuild walls of iron around herself.
"Give her time. She's afraid of what might happen if she lets you in too close." Foxglove said softly, moving to sit beside her.
The Diviner tilted her head, exhaling slowly.
"She's not afraid of me," she said. "Not really. Talia fears nothing that breathes."
Foxglove gave a gentle, chittering laugh — the Nyxir equivalent of a sigh.
"Oh, Diviner. You see many things, but not this."
Calenelda turned to her, brow furrowing. Foxglove's wings folded neatly at her back as she studied the Diviner with those bright, knowing eyes.
"Talia isn't afraid of you hurting her," Foxglove said simply. "She's afraid of what you make her feel."
The Diviner blinked — genuinely lost. "Feeling isn't dangerous."
Foxglove's expression softened. "For someone like Talia? It is. She was raised inside walls — duty, doctrine, expectation. She learned early that anything she wants must be sacrificed. Anything that warms her must be smothered before it grows."
Calenelda frowned, gaze drifting to the rippling surface of the courtyard pool. "She told me once she had no fear left. That she burned through it in the desert."
"That's not true," Foxglove murmured. "She burns through everything except the fears she hides from herself."
The Diviner's fingers curled against her knee. "And what fear is that?"
Foxglove hesitated — then spoke with cautious gentleness.
"She fears wanting you."
Calenelda's breath caught. The words hit harder than any firestorm.
Foxglove continued quietly, "When she looks at you, she sees something she doesn't know how to protect. Not with a blade. Not with vows. Not with distance. She can't defend herself against what she feels, so she convinces herself she doesn't feel it at all."
The Diviner stared ahead, expression unreadable in the moonlight.
"…But she kissed me," she said finally, voice softer than the wind. "And then ran."
"That's exactly why," Foxglove replied. "It wasn't planned. It wasn't armored. It was Talia acting on instinct — the one thing she doesn't trust in herself."
Calenelda swallowed, throat tight. "I keep doing everything wrong. I'm too reckless. Too honest. Too—"
"Too yourself," Foxglove interrupted. "And she doesn't know how to reach for something that isn't wrapped in caution."
The Diviner's shoulders sagged. "She thinks I'll break her."
Foxglove shook her head. "No. She thinks she'll break you."
That struck deeper. Calenelda went still.
Foxglove continued gently, "She saw what the temple did to you. How close you came to losing yourself. She thinks that if she lets herself love you — really love you — it will pull you into danger after danger."
"I walk into danger anyway," Calenelda muttered.
"Yes," Foxglove said with a small, wry smile. "But she'd blame herself for every step."
Calenelda's breath wavered. "And I can't fix this for her, can I?"
Foxglove shook her head. "This isn't yours to fix. You can only be steady, Diviner. Be present. She'll come to you when her own walls stop suffocating her."
Calenelda pressed her palms to the cool stone, grounding herself. "And if they never do?"
Foxglove looked at her — truly looked at her — then spoke with quiet certainty:
"Then she wouldn't have kissed you."
The Diviner closed her eyes. For the first time since the council chamber, the knot in her chest loosened. Foxglove gently touched her shoulder.
"And when she's ready," she said softly, "she won't run."
-Tan'Thalon: Paladin training yard-
The yard was quiet save for the rasp of steel and the occasional grunt as Talia drove herself through drills. Her sword carved arcs through the moonlight, the sound of metal striking training posts echoing in the still air. Each blow was a distraction — each motion a way to beat back the memory of storm and silence, of hands too close and lips almost brushing hers. Her muscles burned. Good. The ache in her chest burned worse.
"You're angry at shadows again."
The voice carried across the yard, calm and low, but it cut like a blade. Talia spun, blade raised — but the Diviner was already there, stepping lightly across the sand as though she'd been waiting.
"How—"
"I felt you," the Diviner said softly. "The way your field trembles against the ground. The heat in your pulse." Her head tilted slightly, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. "You burn hotter than anyone else here. I could find you in a crowd of thousands."
Talia's grip on her sword tightened. Heat rushed to her face, but not from exertion.
"You shouldn't sneak up on me."
"I didn't sneak." The Diviner's tone was maddeningly even. "You just didn't want to be found."
Talia looked away, jaw clenching. "Maybe because I didn't."
Silence stretched — heavy and charged. Calenelda stepped closer, measured and unhurried, until the air between them prickled like static. She stopped just outside the reach of Talia's blade, head tilted as though listening for something deeper than breath.
"You keep building walls," she said gently. "But every time I touch them, I feel how much you're shaking behind them."
Talia flinched — the truth hitting too cleanly. Her breath faltered. She lowered the sword barely a fraction.
"You don't know me."
The Diviner smiled faintly — not mocking, not triumphant, just… sad. "I know more than you think. I know the way your heart stumbles when you think I can't hear it. I know the fire in your strikes and the silence in your pauses." Her eyes softened. "I know you're afraid. But I don't understand why."
Talia opened her mouth — nothing came out. Her only defense was the blade — lifting it again, sharp and bright between them like a wall of steel.
"Stay out of my head."
The Diviner didn't retreat. She didn't even blink. Instead, she stepped one pace closer—
close enough that the sword's edge trembled against the fabric over her heart. Her voice lowered, steady and impossible to ignore.
"I'm not in your head, Talia." A beat. "I'm here."
Something flickered through Talia—fear, longing, fury, all tangled. And then the Diviner's expression changed. Subtly. The warmth drained from her face, replaced by something sharper, stiller. Her blind eyes narrowed as if listening to a sound buried deep beneath the stone.
"Talia…" she murmured, voice shifting. "Did Eldarion speak to you after the council?"
Talia blinked. "What? No. Why?"
The Diviner's breath went thin, trembling at the edges.
"Because when he passed me," she whispered, "my aura recoiled. Not from him — but from something clinging to him."
Talia froze. "What are you saying?"
The Diviner lifted a hand, brushing the air as though tracing invisible flames.
"It was like breathing in smoke that wasn't there. A burn in my ribs. A pressure behind my eyes." She swallowed, unsettled in a way she rarely let herself be. "I've felt that presence before."
Talia's stomach tightened. "Where?"
"In Ba'Ham's temple." Her voice softened to a whisper. "In the fire that tried to take me."
The night thickened around them. The moon seemed colder. Talia felt her skin prickle.
"Calenelda…" she breathed, "are you saying Eldarion—?"
"I'm saying something touched him," the Diviner murmured. "Something tainted. And I don't know if he let it."
Her words hovered between them like a struck bell, reverberating through the still yard. For a moment, neither breathed. Then the Diviner stepped even closer, until the smallest shift would have set Talia's blade cutting skin.
"But you won't talk about that, will you?" she whispered. "Just like you won't talk about us."
Talia's heart lurched.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't—"
"I won't push," Calenelda said softly. "But don't lie to me, Talia. Not about Eldarion. And not about yourself."
Her hand lifted — slow, offering — stopping just short of touching Talia's cheek. The sword trembled. The air tightened. The night held its breath.
-Tan'Thalon: The Moon-Glass Salon-
That same late evening in the Moon-Glass Salon, the opal windows glowed with soft blue light. Music drifted from the main hall, but the private alcove — curtained in indigo velvet — was reserved for Selvara. She stood in the middle of the booth, head slightly tilted, eyes narrowed in concentration. Her two lieutenants, Marrek and Sillis, hovered nearby. A Lazulli sconce flickered as Selvara gestured. Shadows rippled unnaturally across the fabric.
Selvara gave a quiet command. "Begin."
Marrek lifted both palms. Thin threads of violet light spooled outward, settling over the booth like a web. The air shivered — a subtle glamour overlaying the space.
"Fear dampened. Pride heightening. Judgment softened."
Sillis had her eyes half rolled, sensing the currents.
"His jealousy is a ready ember. One touch will make it blaze."
Selvara stepped to the table, touching a delicate wine glass. The reflection within it shifted — showing not the room, but Talia laughing with someone unseen, her expression relaxed, at ease. An illusion, meant to stir insecurity.
Selvara was cold, but pleased. "Good. Place this where he'll see it first."
She then turned toward the candle at the center of the table.
"And the whispers?"
Silis nodded, placing two fingers to the Lazulli candleholder. A faint harmonic vibration hummed — too quiet for any conscious ear to detect.
"Amplified vulnerability. Touch of longing. A seed of righteous anger."
"Not too much. Just enough to make him believe these emotions are his own." Selvara requested.
Silis smirked. "They already are. We only… tune them."
Selvara glided to the side curtain and pinched the fabric. It darkened — deep purple flowing into black — creating the illusion that the booth is more private, more intimate, more full of secrets.
"He seeks validation. Give him a sense of being… chosen."
Marrek adjusted the glamour. The air warmed slightly, as if welcoming him. The opal window catched the light in a way that framed Selvara like a vision. She allowed herself a small, predatory smile.
"And now… weaken his defenses toward me."
Marrek hesitated — barely. Selvara's gaze cut him to stillness.
"Understood."
He traced a sigil. A faint scent curled into the space — something like old cedar and smoldering incense, a smell that evoked trust, authority… and the comfort Eldarion never received from the council he sought to dominate. Selvara stepped back into the center of the booth. Her composure shifted. She softened her posture, lowered her chin, allowed a knowing, welcoming expression to settle onto her face. Her voice dropped into a velvet-smooth tone.
"Ah, Eldarion. You look… pleased with yourself." She said in a perfectly rehearsed tone.
Silis bowed her head, satisfied. "He will believe you see him. Truly see him."
Selvara's voice was edged with satisfaction. "And that is why he never notices the hand behind his ambition."
She drew one long breath, tasting the illusion-laden air.
"Leave me. I want him to think I have been waiting for him — and only him."
Marrek and Silis withdrew without a sound, slipping through the side exit. Selvara sat with regal poise, folding her hands gently over one another, and gazed toward the curtain. A soft tapping of armored footsteps approached the booth. Her smile bloomed — slow, sweet, venomous. Her voice a whisper.
"Right on time, my paladin."
The curtain stirred. Eldarion entered.
-Tan'Thalon: Barracks-
Talia didn't sleep that night. The words still rang in her head, sharp as her own blade. I'm here. She hated how they pierced through, how her pulse still betrayed her. So she sat rigid in her quarters, armor half-shed, polishing a sword that didn't need polishing, forcing her breath into discipline. Her mind kept switching between her turmoil over the Diviner and what she had said about Eldarion. She never really liked him, but she knew him for so long already. Could he really have been touched by Ba'Ham?
But elsewhere, in the quiet of her own chamber, the Diviner was unraveling. She had always held herself like stone — unyielding, grounded, calm. But now, ever since she had been freed from her fears in the temple, even her mind had changed somewhat. She could be grounded and calm, but didn't feel like it. She sat cross-legged with her hands pressed into the floorboards, she found her breath faltering, her composure slipping. The earth whispered back her own heartbeat, quick and uneven. She pressed her palms harder to the wood, grounding herself in the vibrations of the keep — servants moving, guards shifting in their armor, the hum of arcane conduits in the walls. All familiar. All steady. And yet she couldn't still herself. Talia's presence burned in her senses like wildfire, a field she could recognize anywhere, fierce and alive and dangerous. Every moment near her stripped something away the Diviner didn't know how to put back. She raked a hand over her face, lips parting in a sharp breath.
"Why…" the word cracked out into the empty room. "Why can't I—"
Her fists curled against the floor. She could hold the weight of stone, channel storms through her veins, stand unflinching before blades. But this? This left her undone. Her calm mask she had put on for the council slipped entirely for once — not with rage, not with grief, but with something rawer. Something she had no name for.
And for the first time, the Diviner realized she wasn't just interested in Talia. She was afraid of her — afraid of how much she already mattered.
-Tan'Thalon: Lower Ring-
Mist hung low over Tan'Thalon's Lower ring at dawn. Calenelda was up early, walking alone through alleys still slick from the night's rain. She had been pondering all night on how to handle her situation with Talia. Patrolling the streets for things only she could see was a welcome distraction. Stonefang padded silently besides her, ears twitching. Calenelda's expression was tight, closed. Her mind a storm.
"It's nothing Boy." She sighed. "Nothing you can help me with."
He nudged his head under her arm, comforting.
"I just don't understand why she's pushing me away again." She said softly to herself. "I know I can be a lot, but I trusted her. I opened up to her. And now she slams the door in my face."
Stonefang gave a low whuff, nudging her hand. She touched his fur — but even that familiar comfort felt… wrong tonight. There was a faint crackle under his skin, like Lazulli static. Her breath hitched.
"…Not you too."
She shook her head sharply and continued walking, not choosing where she was going. The city, or rather something beneath it, chose for her. The moment she stepped into the narrow ironwork alley near the Lazulli storage tunnels, she felt it — a vibration thrumming through her feet. A frequency too low for anyone but her heightened senses to perceive. It wasn't sound. It was a resonance. A pulse, almost like a heartbeat. She froze.
"…There you are." She whispered.
Stonefang's hackles rose. He growled low, uncertain.
Calenelda knelt, running her hand along the cobblestones. Her fingers glided across a patch of stone that was slightly warmer — and perfectly smooth. Not worn by time. Not natural. Manufactured. Her voice lowers.
"This wasn't here last month."
She pressed her palm flat. The stone gave way. A panel — silent as a grave — slided aside, revealing a staircase spiraling downward into cold Lazulli light. The scent hit her like a blow: scorched metal, thaumic discharge, old dust… and something faintly, horribly biological. Experiments. Stonefang whined, stepping back. The fur along his shoulders bristled. Calenelda's breath caught the tension in his body.
"Stonefang… what is it?"
He refused to go further. For the first time since she bonded with him, he hesitated. She touched his head, fighting the knot in her throat.
"It's all right. I need to see what's down there."
Her voice hardened for just a fraction.
"Talia has enough burdens. She doesn't need this one."
She stepped into the stairwell. Luckily this one was stone. The air grew colder. The Lazulli light deepened to a sickly blueish green. Behind her, Stonefang paced at the threshold, torn between fear and loyalty — but unable to cross. Something in the stone, in the air… repelled him. Calenelda paused, hand on the rail.
"…I trust you. Stay. Guard."
Stonefang let out a frustrated growl but obeyed, seating himself rigidly at the entrance. Underneath his troubles, he was fearful of what the Diviner might do without him to ground her. Afterall, she was still learning how to behave without her fear. Calenelda descended. Every step took her deeper into a soundless world. Except— Except the hum. The pulsing Lazulli heartbeat. It felt like it was calling to her. Or calling something through her. The staircase opened into a cavern carved with brutal precision. Tables covered in crystalline restraints. Broken remains of hybrid constructs — part flesh, part machine. One had an iron jaw, another's spine was enforced. Suspended crystals filled with faded runes. Scorched circles of entropy where failed experiments burned. Calenelda lifted a hand, fingertips brushing the air above a shattered restraint shackle. It was cold. Too cold. Wrong. She inhales sharply. Her voice trembles.
"This is… no laboratory of May'Jahan. This is desecration."
Her foot brushed something — a journal shard, another marvel of magitech. It sparked at her touch, projecting a faint spectral image. Though she could not perceive it. She only heard what it said. The voice was distorted.
"Prototype One survives. Strong spirit. Adaptable flesh. A promising vessel."
This confused Calenelda. "What is this? What am I missing?".
She tucked the shard away in her satchel.
"I'll need someone to have a look at this later." She sighed. "Probably Talia. She's the only one I can trust."
She continued on her ways. The Lazulli hum grew louder, as if approving as she stepped deeper into the lab. She had no idea that something deeper waited. Watching. Awakening. Calenelda's steps were silent. She pressed her palm to the floor. A faint vibration thrums through the stone — multiple hollow spaces ahead, machines humming, crystalline energies buzzing like trapped insects. She continued. Alone. The corridor opened into a circular chamber. Fifteen containment pods arced along the walls like ribs inside a titan's chest cavity. Inside each pod was a silhouette. Upright. Unmoving. Wrong. A Lazulli core sat on a pedestal in the center. Dull, inert — but humming faintly in the stone beneath Calenelda's feet. She darted inside, uninhibited by fear. The pod lights flickered. One eye opened inside a pod. A blue pupil, vertical and cold. Then— All the pods ignite at once. Dozens of crystalline eyes stared out. Still, Calenelda was unaware. That was one of the downsides to being blind.
A disembodied voice vibrated through the walls — metallic, layered, neither male nor female.
"Unauthorized presence.
Classification: mutable.
Threat level: unknown."
Calenelda squared herself. "I'm here to uncover the rot beneath this city. If that makes me a threat — fine."
Silence stretched. Then: "Proceed."
The pods began to open. The first construct stepped forward — its movements smooth, almost elegant. A humanoid frame made of alloy, blueish green filaments, and bone-like lattice. Its runes pulsed with calculated calm. Then a second. A third. Ten, twelve, fifteen, all stepping in synchronized formation. Calenelda lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed. She even seemed to enjoy it, showing her lopsided grin.
The voice spoke again. "You should not be here."
"Then you should've sealed your doors better."
The constructs tilted their heads at the same angle. The runes along their limbs glowed.
"Recalibrating.
Engage."
The constructs marched toward her.
Calenelda slammed her hand to the floor. The stone rippled beneath her palm and exploded upward in a jagged shockwave, striking the constructs' legs and staggering the front line. They recover instantly. One lunged — bladed Lazulli arm slicing through the air. Calenelda dropped, rolling aside. As she went kicked her foot up. A stone pillar erupted beneath the construct, launching it into the ceiling. Metal crunched. Fragments fell. It landed on its feet anyway.
"…Right. Hard way, then."
Two more charged. She slid between them, tracing a circle on the floor with her heel. Stone seized both constructs mid-stride, imprisoning their legs. They twisted violently, fracturing the stone and breaking free. The voice reacted again.
"Geokinetic abilities detected.
Countermeasures adapting."
The constructs' runes shifted. Their feet sharpened — spiked, meant to anchor deeper into the ground. Now her seismic attacks would be weaker. Calenelda's jaw set. One construct paused mid-charge. It emited a low, warbling sound — almost confused. Not hostile. Not curious. Something else. Calenelda frowns.
"…Why are you reacting to me like that?"
The voice returned — sharper, now with interest.
"Anomalous resonance detected.
Source unidentified."
"I don't resonate with anything of yours." Calenelda said.
"Incorrect." The voice responded.
"Cross-referencing patterns.
Primary match unresolved.
Secondary match: incomplete."
The constructs shifted again — some leaning subtly toward her, some pulling back. Not attacking. Assessing. Conflicted.
"Test results inconclusive.
Escalating."
All fifteen constructs turned toward her in perfect unison. Their runes flared. Their footsteps synced. Their blades unfolded.
"Terminate intruder."
Calenelda exhaled slowly, pressing one hand to the earth.
"Come on, then. Let's see if perfection cracks."
The ground began to tremble around her as the constructs descended. Stone hummed beneath Calenelda's feet. Constructs advanced in flawless formation — blades extended, runes glowing with cold precision. Calenelda wiped sweat from her cheek with the back of her hand.
"You want a seismic test? …Fine."
She spread her stance. Her fingertips brushed the floor. Her magic dug deep — so deep she tasted iron at the back of her throat. The constructs lept. Calenelda slammed her palms into the ground.
"BREAK!"
The floor erupted. A shockwave bursted outward like a rolling thunderclap — heavy, brutal, uncontrolled. Constructs staggered as the ground buckled beneath them. Two were launched sideways into the wall, metal and Lazulli cracking. One hit so hard its torso split. Another rushed her. She stomped her heel. A spike of stone speared upward, impaling the construct through the abdomen. Its Glimmer core flickered, sputtered and then died. Calenelda breathed hard. More came. One construct swang. She catched the blade on a sudden wall of stone — jagged, rising inches from her body. The blade shattered against it. She swept her arm wide, hand hooked like the mantis. A horizontal quake surged from the wall she created, slamming through the constructs' formation and sending them toppling like metal dominoes. Three rose. Four stumbled forward again. Calenelda swayed a little, that quake took more from her than she expected.
"You're— you're machines." She said hoarsely. "You don't get tired. I know."
She braced herself as two constructs lunged simultaneously. She drew a deep breath, and the stone answered her like a living thing. A ring of granite spikes thrusted outward from her center, slicing through legs, torsos, joints — severing runic lines, collapsing bodies. A final construct remained. It charged blindly, sparks leaking from cracked plating. Calenelda simply raised her hand. Stone clamped upward around its legs like jaws, locking it in place. She walked up to it, exhaustion heavy, and touched its faceplate.
"Sleep."
A pulse of earth magic flowed into the construct — its runes dimmed, and the machine folded inward, deactivating like an obedient pet. Silence crashed over the chamber. Calenelda stood hunched, breath ragged, trembling from effort.
"You built perfection… but you forgot to build a soul."
Then she heard something. Echoing down the next corridor. Steel. Screams. Magic. Orders barked through gritted teeth. Calenelda went still. Her earth-sense rippled outward instinctively, brushing the stone like a probing hand. Farther down the tunnel — twenty heartbeats, human. Seven failing. Three nearly gone. And one voice — hoarse, furious, refusing to yield:
"HOLD THE LINE! DON'T YOU DARE GIVE GROUND VANGUARD!"
Calenelda's head snapped toward the sound. The Iron Vanguard. Alive. But barely.
But not alone— She felt something else. Something wrong. A cluster of signatures — cadaver-cold, runes pulsed through dead bone — like the constructs she just fought, but cruder, patched with flesh and necromantic weaves. The Architect wasn't just building machines. He was building an army.
Though still rough from her fight, Calenelda ran to aid. "Hold on."
She ran toward the screams, stone buckling open in front of her to form a spiraling descent deeper into the tunnels. Behind her, a single Lazulli eye flickered weakly in a fallen construct— as if watching her go. Calenelda raced downward, stone bending beneath her feet as she forced it to form a ramp. The screams sharpened. Metal clashed with something wet and unclean. A voice echoed — a woman's, steady even as pain cracks through it.
"Hold formation! Shields UP—!" Serenya shouted.
A blast of necrotic force interrupted her, followed by shrieks of pain. Calenelda accelerated. The tunnel widened abruptly, opening into an old excavation cavern repurposed into a staging pit. Lazulli scaffolds crackled with stolen energy. The Iron Vanguard formed a crumbling shield wall against a massive ritual sigil drawn across the floor. And at its center— A necromancer in dark green robes, half his face replaced with crystalline grafts, lifted both hands. Corpses fused with magitech plating staggered forward in jerks, limbs clicking like broken mechanisms.
"Your steel cannot stop progress! Ba'ham's design is inevitable!" The necromancer said exultant.
Serenya braced with bleeding arms, her shield half-melted from entropy burns. She was in no better condition than her shield, but she still rallied her troops.
"Stand your ground! If we fall here, Tan'thalon—"
A corpse-machine crashed into her line. The Vanguard buckled. A trooper was flung aside and didn't rise. Calenelda reacted without thinking.
She leapt from the descending stone ramp, landing between the Vanguard and the necromancer. Touching down with one knee bent and one hand touching the ground. A perfect three point landing. She was a bit of a crowd pleaser. Dust exploded outward. The necromancer snarled.
"You—one of the city's blind fools? You will be the first perfected—"
He raised a sigil. Calenelda moved first. Her foot touched the ground—
"Shatter."
A ripple of stone fractured the floor beneath the advancing corpse-machines. Several collapsed, limbs cracked against the sudden shift. The Vanguard stared in awe.
"Who—?" Serenya said, confused.
She got her answer when Calenelda lifted her hand again. The necromancer gestured sharply, pulling Lazulli conduits toward himself, feeding off the stolen lines. Three corpse-machines lunged at Calenelda. She braced. But instead of summoning stone, she inhaled. The air bent. A shockwave burst from her like a sudden gale, invisible but violent.
The corpse-machines were hurled backward, smashing into scaffolds with bone-cracking force. The air grew sharp around her fingers, vibrating, alive. Serenya went rigid.
"Air…? She's using air magic?"
A second wave of undead surged forward. Calenelda pivoted, drawing earth up in a jagged wall— then sliced it apart with a razor-thin blade of compressed wind. Stone and wind in the same breath. Impossible.
This left Serenya stunned. "Double… awakened…?"
Several Vanguard soldiers lowered their weapons in disbelief. They had never seen an elementalist use two elements at once. The necromancer falters too, eyes widening.
"That— that's forbidden. That's imperfect. You cannot— you shouldn't exist."
Calenelda growled. "Too bad for you."
She slammed her palm to the ground. A pillar of stone erupted beneath the necromancer, throwing him off balance. Before he landed, she twisted her other hand. A whip of air lashed him across the chest, cutting open robes and grafted Lazulli plating. He hit the floor hard. The ritual sigil sputtered. The corpse-machines flickered, confused. Serenya seized the moment.
"Vanguard! Push forward!"
They charged, cutting down the staggering undead as Calenelda advanced toward the necromancer. He struggled upright, rasping.
"Ba'ham… guide me…"
"He's not listening." Calenelda said.
Stone spikes erupted around the necromancer, pinning him in an unbreakable ring. Wind gathered above her hand, humming dangerously. It started to crackle with lightning. One strike would end him. But she hesitated. Just a heartbeat, knowing the knowledge he carried might be vital. The necromancer took advantage, drawing hidden sigils in his blood. A teleportation glyph ignited under him.
Serenya shouted. "DIVINER! MOVE—!"
Calenelda startled, and released the build up tension. Arcs of lightning spread out, searching for prey. But the necromancer vanished in a burst of sickly green light, leaving only scorch marks and a fading echo. Calenelda's thunder reached further than she anticipated. It found something. And –
Struck the last corpse-machine and someone else. A shout tore from a female throat before she collapsed. The chamber went still. The Vanguard breathed hard, staring at the stranger who saved them. Before they laid eyes on their fallen Commander. Sparks still flying from where the lightning had struck. And their saviour? She had vanished.