Author's Note: I want to thank each one of you for the 40k views.This milestone was only possible thanks to your support, your comments, and every careful read.Truly — thank you for walking beside me through this story.
I wish you all an excellent read.Let's keep moving forward.
The gray dawn light had barely spread across the clearing when Brianna's voice cut the air like a disciplined blade.
"Get up. Now."
The order wasn't loud.
But no one dared ignore it.
Exhausted soldiers moved slowly, as if being hauled out of a deep well.
Some groaned when their joints protested.
Others held their bandages in place as they tried to stand.
Brianna walked among them with no tolerance for hesitation.
"Form ranks. Those who can march go up front. Those who can't…" She paused just long enough to meet one of the captains' eyes, cold and direct. "You carry them. No discussion."
That was when two soldiers approached where Ryden lay, still unmoving in induced death.
"Captain… he…" one of them faltered.
"Take him," Brianna ordered before doubt could breathe. "Do not let him fall a single inch. If he falls, you fall with him."
The soldiers nodded quickly, almost relieved they didn't have to decide.
They lifted Ryden carefully, but firmly — he felt heavy as wet stone.
The sun was still only a blur behind thick clouds, but Brianna continued:
"We leave before the sun settles."
She watched the men begin to move.
"Standing still is dying."
As the improvised camp took shape, four figures approached the central circle: Kaelir, Karna, Skýra, and Rynne — followed by the four Awakened, each marked by the day before.
Kaelir adjusted his daggers, face tired but steady.
"They'll survive the march?" he asked, blunt.
Brianna didn't take her eyes off the soldiers.
"They have no choice."
Karna stepped closer, body still stiff from a night that barely counted as sleep.
"The trails close in from here," he said. "If there's another ambush…"
"It won't be like yesterday," Brianna cut in, dry. "What we faced has no pattern. No logic. It just… advances."
Skýra crossed her arms, watching the forest as if waiting for it to move.
"I found tracks," she said. "Thin, but fresh."
"Human?" Kaelir asked.
Skýra shook her head, slow.
"Not entirely."
Rynne stood beside the Awakened, assessing their stance with sharp eyes.
They were upright, but tension held their muscles — as if the body remembered death before the mind.
"They can march," Rynne said without turning. "But they shouldn't fight. Not today."
Brianna finally looked at her.
"We don't choose when to fight."
Rynne didn't argue.
The Awakened straightened, as if that alone proved they were ready.
Kaelir took one step forward.
"And where do you want each of us?"
Brianna answered without hesitation:
"You with me at the front."
"Skýra on the flanks."
"Rynne and the Awakened — keep the soldiers together."
Then she turned to Karna.
"And you, in the rear. Watching everything."
Karna exhaled softly through his nose.
"At the back, huh?"
"You're the one who misses nothing," Brianna said — simple, not sarcastic. "I need that."
Karna nodded, serious in a way he rarely was.
Brianna faced the trailhead, where the forest seemed denser than it had the night before.
"Move," she ordered. "Before something decides to reach us first."
And the march began.
Without faith.
Without rest.
Without guarantees.
Only movement — and the weight of what waited beyond the trees.
The walls of the Eastern Kingdom rose like sleeping colossi — broad, ancient, scarred by war, veined with runes pulsing under the pale dawn.
The forest before them rippled with the last remnants of night fog.
On the high wall, a woman watched the horizon.
White, sleek hair whipped like wind-carried snow.
Bronzed skin held the warmth of ancient suns.
And her eyes — white, absolute — reflected nothing but themselves.
She did not blink.
She did not draw breath with unease.
She simply looked.
A shadow rose behind her, as if the world itself had parted to let a presence through — one that never needed to be announced.
Before he could speak, the woman said:
"Reaper… tired of testing the girl?"
Her voice was low, but carried the weight of someone who never needed to raise it to be obeyed.
He smiled — a thin smile that never reached his eyes.
"The girl resists more than I expected." The tilt of his shoulders betrayed disdain. "He shaped her better than I assumed."
The corner of her mouth lifted — not amusement, but quiet acknowledgment of an inconvenient truth.
The Reaper watched her.
"I thought you sent the Drakkoul to erase the whole army," he said, tone gaining lazy interest. "Yet here you stand, as if waiting for her to reach these walls. I assumed you held no fondness for her."
The woman shifted her gaze from the forest just enough for the blank white in her eyes to glint.
"Brianna is strong." The name carried no softness, no coldness — only fact. "But I'm not here for her."
"No?" He tilted his head.
She looked back to the trees.
"I sent trained Drakkoul to kill the survivors when night fell." Her voice remained firm. "None returned."
The Reaper's smile faded.
Just a little.
But faded.
"You know what that means?" she asked.
He let out a light breath.
"They were slain."
"Correct." Her fingers brushed the cold stone of the wall. "Unlike the others, those can think. And even so… they fell."
Fog curled at the base of the walls, spiraling slow — reacting to her presence, as if breathing with her.
"You should prepare," she continued. "The leader's report left no opening. You sent a shadow to hunt her… and failed. Now she comes toward us."
The Reaper smiled again — this time openly, arrogance overflowing.
"You think I would fear your daughter merely because I wounded her… in that senseless contest the Central King dared call a war?"
Only then did the woman fully turn.
Her white eyes shone like something not belonging to this world.
"Do not underestimate… a daughter of Salem."
The air drew inward.
The breeze died.
Matter itself trembled.
Her body dissolved in a white spiral of ethereal smoke — rising, thinning, vanishing as if swallowed by an unseen veil.
Silence.
The Reaper stared at the absence she left behind.
And slowly, his smile returned — not of confidence… but anticipation.
As one who awaits an inevitable spectacle.
The lingering mist dispersed into nothing, and the wind on the walls resumed — cold, empty, indifferent.
Meanwhile…
In the depths of the Eastern Kingdom, far below cities and walls and any trace of light, the world was different.
A place where time did not pass — it dragged.
Darkness there was not absence of light.
It was presence.
Heavy.
Almost alive.
And within it… someone breathed.
The underground chamber lay drowned in absolute black, broken only by the uneven sound of air drawn between teeth.
Lyra.
Seated in the same metal chair — shoulders slumped, head leaning, body carved by days of continuous torture.
Old bruises merged with fresh cuts.
Dried blood glued strands of hair to her skin.
The shackles had torn her wrists, leaving deep dark grooves.
Even so…
She was still conscious.
Still breathing.
The door trembled faintly with cold currents slipping through the corridor.
No voice.
No footsteps.
No guard.
Only her own breathing.
And in the total dark around her — as if the shadows watched.
Not with sight.
The metal doors opened with a long, rasping drag, like hinges that had been groaning since before the world began.
Lyra didn't move — body weak, slack, head down, breath almost silent.
The figure stopped at the threshold.
A gust of cold air entered.
He observed her like one inspects an artifact — not a person.
His voice came low, controlled, carrying the kind of irony that cuts before touching the ear:
"Save your effort."
"Feigning weakness wastes my time."
The darkness swallowed the shape of his face — only one blue eye remained, fixed on her.
Lyra smiled — brief, crooked, almost taunting.
"If you don't believe in my frailty… why come?"
The corner of his mouth lifted — not a smile.
Refined cruelty, measured to precision.
"Curiosity."
"The Reaper descends to these cells more often than he should."
"And I wanted to see why."
He took one step closer — and Lyra felt the air shift, as if pushed to the edges by his presence.
"You bored him?"
"Or he realized you're too resilient to break without method?"
Lyra tilted her chin, assessing the shadow before her.
"Maybe he got tired of talking to himself."
"He didn't tire," the figure corrected — dangerously calm. "The Prince of the Abyss is far too valuable for them to abandon."
"And you… know things he very much wants to hear."
Lyra raised her head slightly, enough to show half her face — controlled, yet marked by real exhaustion.
Metal cracked.
Not as if pulled — but as if something unseen split the shackles from within.
Chains chimed, trembling with the sudden break — and one link hit the ground with a dry click, spinning until it rested at her feet.
"And you?" Lyra asked, voice low.
"What do you want to hear?"
His eye gleamed like a wet blade in the dark.
"I want to meet Éreon."
Lyra didn't answer at once.
She studied him like one weighs a dangerous puzzle.
"...Why?"
His reply held the same beauty and the same cold:
"Because he robbed me of something I waited ten years to do."
The room went still.
Even the air seemed to hesitate.