Gareth's gaze froze as the courtyard doors swung open, revealing a crew of women moving with the precision of predators.
The leader stepped forward, white hair cascading over tanned shoulders, dark gloves gleaming, her eyes heavy with boredom as if the world itself failed to interest her.
Every member of the crew followed, black hair flowing like liquid shadow, each stride measured, controlled, and impossibly graceful.
Their gloves seemed almost ceremonial, a silent declaration: touch them, and consequences would strike faster than thought.
The leader's gaze swept over the gathered trainees, sharp and cold, assessing, dismissing, letting disdain drip from every glance.
As they walked through the courtyard, the air thickened; the boys flinched, the strongest felt small, the weakest crumbled under the weight of their presence.
Each woman's body was taut, athletic, and deceptively lithe, yet the curves that dared to show only amplified the danger they radiated.
By the time they reached the court, silence had fallen, all eyes locked on the leader, aware instinctively that she wielded a force beyond measure.
She finally spoke, voice flat and detached, dripping contempt for the world and every man who dared breathe in her presence.
The courtyard seemed to shrink as the leader settled into a tall, black chair, her posture effortless, like she weighed nothing yet carried the weight of storms.
Behind her, the rest of the crew stood in formation, arms crossed, gloves glinting, radiating menace, every movement carved from precision and disdain.
Her silver eyes gleamed faintly, catching the light, unnervingly bright against the darkness of her tanned skin and the shadows cast by her white hair.
A hushed wave of whispers ran through the trainees—boys muttering to each other, their gazes fixed, hearts hammering as they noted the lethal beauty and sculpted figures of the women.
Some teenage boys dared to murmur about the curves, the tautness, the subtle power in every stride, each word dying on their lips as the atmosphere thickened.
Then, with a casual tilt of her chin, the leader's voice rang out, sharp and commanding, slicing through the whispers like a blade: "I'm Thyssara Nightspire. Leader of the Sixth Outermarch."
The courtyard froze; even the wind seemed to hold its breath as every eye turned to her, the murmurs evaporating into silence under the gravity of her presence.
Her lips curved faintly, cruelly, as she added, venom dripping in every syllable:
"And you men… are all utterly worthless. Mere distractions, mistakes that deserve correction."
Thyssara leaned back in her chair, silver eyes glinting, voice slow, deliberate, every word a hammer on the ears of everyone present.
"Recently… hundreds of corrupt monsters have risen," she began, her tone slicing through the courtyard like steel.
"They assault the West Tribe without mercy, without hesitation, without thought—mindless engines of destruction born from chaos."
Her gaze swept over the trainees, icy and absolute, daring anyone to blink, daring anyone to disagree.
"And yet… they do not fall. Every strike we deliver, every trap we set, they multiply, adapt, grow stronger."
Her voice hardened, resonating with the inevitability of truth. "At this rate… if no one intervenes, if no one rises to meet them, all will die. By next year, the West Tribe will be nothing but ash and memory."
A pause. She let the weight of her words settle, silver eyes glimmering with quiet fury.
"Reality is not kind. Reality does not bend to hope, to wishes, to cowardice. It bends only to strength, to will, to those willing to seize it with both hands and crush all opposition."
Her words left no room for argument. Silence reigned, the courtyard charged with fear, awe, and respect—Thyssara Nightspire was not just a leader… she was a force of inevitability.
Thyssara straightened slightly, silver eyes scanning the crowd with absolute precision.
"I have come forth to choose ten warriors," she announced, voice cutting like ice, "do not think the other marches are handing out warriors these days—they rarely do."
Her gaze flicked over the trainees, lingering for a moment, and then she added, "I will accept anyone… who manages to even hurt one of my girls, just a little."
A murmur ran through the room. Gareth's mind worked quickly, calculating every detail.
She isn't just strong… she's immensely strong. Every step, every glance, it radiates control and Veil power beyond anything I've sensed before.
He recalled the first lesson in Veil detection: a user can often sense another's presence by the faint glow of their Veil, an aura that mirrors strength, intent, and temperament.
And yet… something about her feels different, Gareth thought. Even if I tried to detect her Veil directly, it might not be enough. She's… refined, disciplined… absolute.
His memory shifted, Joren's voice sneaking into his thoughts, from days spent watching the sunset together, the light bleeding gold across their shoulders.
"You know," Joren had said, leaning lazily against a rock beside Gareth, smirk sharp as a blade, "you can even detect another Veil user by their heartbeat.
If you really know what you're listening for. Makes dinner conversations a lot more interesting."
Gareth remembered the lesson vividly—enhancing your hearing until it captured what no ordinary person could detect: the subtle thrum of life, the Veil's resonance pulsing through flesh, bone, and spirit.
Joren had chuckled, eyes glinting in the sunset, mocking confidence rolling off him in waves. "Honestly, if I can hear your pathetic heartbeat from twenty paces, and know your Veil's about as sharp as a wet noodle… you really shouldn't mess with me, kid."
Gareth had rolled his eyes, smiling faintly despite himself, yet even Joren's sarcasm carried truth.
Listening, sensing, deducing—those were the tools that might keep him alive when facing someone like Thyssara Nightspire.
Gareth narrowed his eyes, falling into silence as Thyssara's words sank deeper. Ten warriors… corrupt monsters adapting… multiplying. His mind began stitching possibilities together, each darker than the last. If they evolve this fast, something is driving them… something intelligent.
He folded his arms, thinking in sharp lines. Why the West Tribe? Why now? What's feeding their growth? Who benefits from chaos spreading this fast?
Jaless nudged him with an elbow, brow raised. "Oi—what do you think about all this? You look like you're trying to solve the universe."
Gareth exhaled slowly, eyes locked on Thyssara's crew. "There are mysteries we haven't touched yet," he muttered. "Big ones."
Jaless frowned. "Like what?"
"Like why the corrupt are adapting and increasing," Gareth said bluntly. "Monsters don't evolve this fast without a cause. Something's behind it."
His mind sharpened further, the memory of Joren's voice echoing faintly. Listen to the world, idiot. Every anomaly has a source. Find the pulse.
Gareth's gaze hardened. He wasn't just hearing a speech—he was seeing the beginnings of something far more dangerous than the Sixth Outermarch could explain.
Jaless swallowed, unease creeping across his face. "You think someone's… controlling them?"
Gareth didn't answer immediately. But his silence said everything.
Gareth slowly lifted his gaze upward, staring at the pale, shifting sky above the courtyard.
The clouds stretched thin like wounded scars, the colors washed out and sickly—an omen he couldn't ignore.
"I think…" Gareth whispered, barely hearing his own voice.
Jaless leaned in. "Hm?"
Gareth's throat tightened. The thought hit him like a blade of ice, slicing straight into his spine. "I think everyone may actually die."
The words tasted bitter. Too real. Too heavy.
A cold shiver crawled down his back—because the more he thought about the corrupt multiplying, adapting, spreading… the more the truth sharpened. This isn't a crisis. It's the beginning of a catastrophe.
His chest tightened with fear—raw, instinctive, uncontrollable.
For the first time since coming here, Gareth felt a terror that wasn't about himself… but about the world collapsing piece by piece.
He kept staring at the sky, as if it could offer answers. But all he felt was the crushing weight of realization pressing against his lungs.
Jaless went silent beside him, watching Gareth's expression shift—really seeing the fear that he tried so hard to bury.
And Gareth, still frozen, whispered again in his mind: If nothing changes… we're already dead.