The Final Hour
The first thing I feel is the ground moving.
Not shaking—not like a small tremor or the usual distant impact of something big hitting stone. It's deeper than that. It rolls through the street and into my bones, like the whole district is one giant drum and something just hit it.
I drag in a breath and my ribs scream.
Right. Still alive.
The sky above me swims in and out of focus. The red moon hangs overhead—big, bruised, bleeding light across the rooftops. It makes the whole city look like it's soaked in rust.
I lie there for a moment, trying to remember why I'm on my back.
Then the pain in my side answers for me.
The Ravorn. The stolen eidolon. Letting it stab me so I could crush its heart with my hand.
Worth it.
Doesn't make it hurt less.
Another distant roar slams through the district.
This one I feel in my teeth. The air goes heavy, like it doesn't want to be here anymore. Somewhere far off, something collapses—a chunk of building or a wall. The sound reaches me a second later as a dull crash.
I grit my teeth and force myself to sit up.
The wound at my side burns like someone just shoved the broken sai back into it and twisted. I hiss through my teeth, one hand clamped over the bandage I slapped together earlier. It's soaked now, warm and sticky against my fingers.
I blink until the world stops spinning and look toward the source of the roar.
I see it immediately.
Even from here, the Imgrel is impossible to miss.
It stands near the distant line of the pit, towering over the ruins around it. A long, shadow-draped body rises up and up until it cuts into the clouds, all stretched limbs and thin, unnatural proportions. Its form isn't solid—not really. It wavers at the edges like smoke clinging to a shape.
But the eyes—
Two small points of white burn out of that darkness. Cold. Patient. Ancient.
Every instinct I have screams at me to get lower. To hide. To pretend I'm part of the street and hope it doesn't notice.
"That's…" My voice comes out cracked. "…that's not possible."
Imgrels don't appear topside. They don't climb out of the pit. They're stories used to scare trainees into taking their drills seriously.
Except one of those stories is standing in my world right now, under the red moon, moving its head slowly like it's studying the city.
Another wave of dread floods the district. I can't hear it, but I feel it—a sudden quiet, like every scream, shout, and monster call got swallowed at once and held its breath.
Then the noise returns all at once.
Shouting. Orders. Crashes. A far-off explosion of light from some Eidolon discharge. The city wakes up like someone jammed a knife into its side.
I push myself to my feet.
It's clumsy and ugly, more falling forward than standing, but I manage to stay upright. My legs shake under my weight. The wound in my side grinds with every movement, a hot, constant reminder of how stupid it would be to keep moving.
I start walking anyway.
I don't sprint. I can't. Every time my heel hits the stone too hard, my vision sparks at the edges. So I walk. Slow. One hand pressed to my side, the other dragging against the wall when I need balance.
Hunters rush past me within minutes.
They appear from every side street, every alley, every rooftop—boots slamming, cloaks trailing, weapons already drawn. Some of them spare a glance in my direction, recognize the blood, the limp, the way I'm barely staying upright.
None of them stop.
Can't blame them. If they're being called toward the Imgrel, they don't have time to babysit a half-broken Hunter who should be on a stretcher.
A squad of four sprints by, all in standard gear, masks still halfway on as they run.
"You see that thing?" one of them pants.
"Keep moving," another barks. "Orders are to converge on the southern plaza, then push toward the pit. Don't look at it too long."
"Is that really—"
"Doesn't matter what it is. Move."
They disappear around a corner, footsteps fading into the bigger noise of a city mobilizing.
A regular red moon is bad enough.
I limp forward, teeth gritted, listening to the chaos grow.
On any normal red moon, we get more of the usual—Ravorns, mimics, ferals waking up in the cracks. The air gets thicker, the dark gets meaner, and the Hunters get spread thin trying to plug every hole before dawn.
Tonight makes those nights look like training exercises.
Another roar tears across the skyline. I glance up in time to see the Imgrel shift its weight, one colossal leg sliding forward. The ground trembles. From this distance, I can't hear its footsteps clearly, but I can feel the impact in the cracked glass of the shop windows I pass.
"What the hell is going on…" I mutter.
I think of my mother.
Did she hear the roar?
Is she hiding? Praying? Cursing me for not being there?
A sharper pain spikes through my side. I press my hand harder into the wound.
Then another face pushes itself into my thoughts.
Isabella.
Her dumb, nervous smile. The way she fumbles over basic Hunter terms but still tries to use them like she's been doing this her whole life. The way she looks at the world like it hasn't disappointed her yet.
She was supposed to be under supervision, near the safer side of the district. But "safer" doesn't mean much when an Imgrel crawls out of the ground. What if the building she's in collapses? What if one of the other beasts slips through while everyone's busy looking at the big thing?
My chest feels tight.
"You're fine," I mutter, not sure if I'm talking to her or trying to convince myself. "You've got Hunters nearby. You've got… you've got people."
Do you?
I don't know. I don't know anything except that I'm here, on a street that smells like dust and smoke and blood, walking toward something I can't fight.
Another pair of Hunters rushes past me, these ones higher rank—armor better made, weapons glowing faintly at their sides. One of them slows half a step when he sees me.
"You should be at triage, Dagian," he grunts. "You're leaking."
"Where's triage?" I ask.
He jerks his head back the other way. "Away from the thing that's going to kill us all. Take a left at the broken fountain, follow the yellow flags."
I look past him, toward the distant, towering silhouette.
"I'll… catch up," I lie.
He stares at me for a second, like he knows exactly what I'm doing and knows exactly how stupid it is. Then he shakes his head and keeps moving.
The street turns, then opens into a wider avenue. More Hunters stream along it now, forming a river of bodies moving in the same direction. Some carry long-range Eidolon weapons, others heavy armor, some with members of their squad supporting injured but still moving.
I join the edge of the flow, letting it pull me along at my own slow speed.
My body hates every step.
My mind hates me more.
What are you even doing? a dark, ugly part of me snaps. You can't fight like this. You could barely stand up. You nearly died to one Ravorn, and now you think you can walk toward an Imgrel?
I clench my jaw.
I remember the Ravorn's sai plunging into my side. Remember the way my hand shook when I reached into its chest. Remember how close it was—how if I'd hesitated one more second, it would've torn me apart.
"I let it stab me," I say under my breath. "On purpose."
Yeah. And look how well that turned out. You're dragging yourself across the street like a corpse that hasn't gotten the message yet.
Maybe I am a coward.
I didn't look for my mom first. Didn't check on Isabella. I headed toward the biggest threat because that's what Hunters are supposed to do, and some part of me would rather die doing the "right" thing than admit I'm terrified of seeing them hurt.
"What are you doing, Dagian…" I whisper.
The roar comes again.
Closer.
The Hunters around me flinch, some grabbing onto nearby walls for balance as the ground gives a brief shudder. Somewhere ahead, a tower crumbles, the top half sliding off with a long, grinding groan before smashing into the street. A cloud of dust blooms into the air.
The Imgrel turns its head slightly. Even from here, I can feel its attention like a hand pressing down on the city.
I swallow hard.
"You're scared," I tell myself. "Good. You're supposed to be."
I use a street sign to steady myself as we turn another corner. My lungs burn; sweat stings my eyes. Every time I glance down, there's more blood on my shirt.
"You're weak," that same voice in my head continues. "You know it. You've always known it. You're just good at hiding it behind planning and tricks. But against that?"
I don't answer.
Because it's right.
What am I next to that thing? An ant with a knife standing at the foot of a god.
I keep walking anyway.
Eventually, the river of Hunters begins to slow. The street widens into a large, open plaza—not the one I fought the Ravorn in, but another, further toward the inner district. Broken statues ring the edges, and a series of wide staircases lead up to higher platforms overlooking the center.
The plaza is packed.
Hundreds of Hunters gather here—standard units, specialists, high-rank Eidolon users, all clumped into loose groups according to their squads. Snatches of conversation cut through the noise as I limp closer.
"You seen it yet?"
"Is command serious? That's an Imgrel?"
"Rank Four squads to outer perimeter—keep the streets clear!"
"Where the hell is Ezekiel? We need orders."
I weave through the crowd, trying not to get knocked over. At my height and in my condition, I'm one bad bump away from passing out.
Then the noise shifts.
It doesn't stop—it changes. The scattered chatter tightens, the restless motion settles. Heads turn toward the raised central platform, where a small group of Hunters stands elevated above the rest.
At the front of them is a man I've only seen in reports and from very, very far away.
Ezekiel Asaka.
Rank #2 Eidolon.
He's not dressed to impress—no gilded armor or fancy cloak. Just a dark, fitted coat reinforced with plates along the chest and shoulders, gloves covering his hands, and a blade at his hip that hums so quietly you can feel it in your teeth if you stand too close.
His hair is black and cut short, his face sharp but not cruel. Calm. Focused. Like the chaos around him is just another detail to be cataloged.
He raises one hand, palm open.
The plaza quiets.
Even the Hunters still arriving at the edges feel it and lower their voices.
Ezekiel's eyes sweep across the crowd once. If anyone can make sense of this, it's someone like him.
"This is an abnormal anomaly," he says.
His voice isn't loud.
It doesn't have to be.
It cuts through the noise and hangs there, firm and unshaken. Someone nearby mutters, "No kidding," under their breath, earning a sharp elbow from a teammate.
Ezekiel continues.
"Whatever protocol you've drilled for a red moon, push it aside. The appearance of an Imgrel topside is not in our standard threat models."
The word rolls across the crowd like a wave: Imgrel.
Some flinch. Others clench their fists. Someone swears quietly. I just stand there, breathing shallow, watching his face.
"However," he says, and that one word pulls everyone's attention even tighter, "you have drilled for large-scale calamity events. You have trained for city-level threats. Tonight, we apply those principles."
He gestures toward the distant pit, where the Imgrel still looms in the red-lit haze.
"Our priorities are threefold. One: containment. Two: civilian survival. Three: attrition."
He lets that sink in, then continues.
"Don't worry about killing it outright. Not yet. We don't know how this manifested, how stable it is, or what triggered it. What we do know is that it's moving slowly, it's focused on the pit's perimeter, and it hasn't started a full advance into the district proper."
A Hunter near me whispers, "Yet," and gets another elbow.
Ezekiel goes on.
"Containment teams—Ranks Four and below—you'll hold the approach routes. Your goal is keeping other anomalies from piggybacking on the Imgrel's presence. Ravorns, mimics, ferals—if they slip through while we focus on the big one, we lose entire sectors."
I think of Isabella.
Of my mother.
Containment. Civilians. The houses near the pit. The houses not near the pit but still under threat as the city shakes itself apart.
"Support Eidolon users," Ezekiel calls, sweeping his gaze over another section of the crowd, "you're to prioritize structural stabilization and shielding. Our city falls faster than we do. Keep the streets passable. Keep the buildings intact long enough for evac. No heroics. Your job is to make sure the rest of us have somewhere to stand."
He shifts his weight slightly, the only sign that he's thinking three steps ahead while he talks.
"Strike units—Ranks Three through One." His eyes narrow slightly. "You're with me."
There's a quiet rustle through the high-ranked Hunters gathered closer to the platform. Some straighten; others adjust their weapons.
"We're not going to meet the Imgrel in a straight line," Ezekiel says. "We'd be crushed. Instead, we're going to bleed it in layers. Joints first—ankles, knees, hips. Anything that slows its movement without forcing it to commit its full attention to us yet."
He points toward the distant silhouette.
"We'll hit from spread positions—never clustered. If it turns, we shift. If it sweeps, we drop low or disengage. Remember: this isn't a beast. It's a calamity. We do not engage with the expectation of walking away clean."
A murmur passes through the crowd at that, but nobody argues.
"Casualties," he says, voice dropping just enough to make everyone lean in, "are inevitable."
The words land heavy.
"But high casualties are not acceptable," he adds. "That's why we plan. That's why we've trained. You've all worked these patterns before—maybe not with an Imgrel at the center, but with threats designed to break your lines."
He lifts his hand again.
"Trust those drills."
The Hunters around me stand a little straighter.
"Final point," Ezekiel says. "Fear is normal. Anyone who isn't afraid is either lying or compromised."
A few strained laughs slip out. Even I feel a bitter smile tug at the corner of my mouth.
"But you are not allowed," he continues, "to freeze."
His gaze sweeps the plaza again, cutting through the crowd like a blade.
"You move. You follow calls. You watch for signals. You protect each other. And when the Imgrel turns its attention our way, you do not think of yourselves as individuals up against a giant."
He lets that hang, then finishes:
"You think of yourselves as the city's last line. Because that's what you are."
Silence follows.
Then, slowly, the plaza breaks into motion all at once.
Command voices scream orders over the comm-lines. Hunters clatter down staircases, sprint across rooftops, or vanish into shadowed alleys, each one heading toward whatever position they'd been assigned.
Me?
I try to move toward the main strike force.
I make it three steps before a wave of dizziness nearly drops me.
I press my palm harder into my side. The makeshift bandage is soaked—hot, sticky, and useless. Breathing hurts. Standing hurts. Everything hurts.
Perfect.
Just as I regain my balance—
"Dagian!"
I turn.
Ral and Maeve shove through the tide of Hunters, both staring at me like I'm a corpse that suddenly stood up.
"What the hell happened to you?" Ral blurts, eyes widening at the blood down my torso. "You look like you got run over by a Ravorn pack."
Maeve pushes her visor up, taking in my limp. "You need to head to the north outpost. Now. They're turning it into a full medical base."
"I don't have time—"
"You don't have a choice," Ral snaps. "You're bleeding out."
"I'll manage."
Maeve folds her arms. "No. You won't."
Before I can argue—
A hand lands on my shoulder. Light at first. Then firm.
I don't have to look to know who it is.
"What did I tell you about doing stupid things without supervision?" Ember says behind me.
I turn slightly.
And there she is.
Red jacket hanging open, hood down. Long black hair tied loosely, some strands falling in her face. Eyes sharp and strangely warm at the same time. A confident, almost lazy smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. A massive blade strapped casually across her back, like it's an accessory she just happened to bring.
She looks like she walked straight out of a fight she enjoyed more than she should have.
Her gaze sweeps over me, slow and deliberate.
Then she clicks her tongue.
"…wow," she says. "You look awful."
"Thanks," I mutter.
Ral snorts. Maeve sighs in relief.
Ember steps around me, placing herself squarely in front of my chest like a wall I'm too injured to push through.
"You're going to the medical outpost," she says.
"I'm going to the strike—"
"No," she interrupts. "You're not."
I glare. "I can still fight."
"You can barely stand," she replies. "If you walk five more steps, your legs are going to fold in like wet paper."
"They won't—"
She leans close enough that I can feel her breath on my cheek.
"Dagian. Shut up."
…Fine.
"Good," she says, satisfied.
She slides her arm under mine and lifts my weight effortlessly against her side. She smells faintly of cold metal and smoke. Her jacket brushes my arm—rough fabric, worn from training and fights.
She tilts her head at Ral and Maeve.
"Go. South sector is expecting you."
They give her quick nods and take off.
I try walking on my own.
My legs immediately betray me.
Ember's grip tightens.
"See?" she murmurs. "Wet paper."
"…Shut up."
She laughs, soft but unmistakably entertained. "Make me."
Despite everything—the pain, the fear, the city trembling under an approaching monstrosity—I feel something in my chest loosen just slightly.
We move together through the shattered streets toward the northern outpost.
It's quieter here.
Not because it's safer.
Because it's where the wounded are.
…And the dead.
My stomach twists as we approach the rows of stretchers, the smell of blood thick in the air. Hunters stagger in and collapse onto mats. Others are carried in. Some yell. Some don't have enough strength left to make a sound.
Ember's voice fades to a whisper as she looks around.
"This is bad."
"Yeah," I say.
"It wasn't even this bad during the Collapse Trial last year."
"Because that wasn't an Imgrel."
Her jaw tightens.
We reach the triage center—a stripped-apart warehouse with half its walls missing, now filled with medics scrambling between patients.
A fox-mask medic spots us and rushes over.
"Oh perfect," he mutters as he sees me. "Another one who thinks he's invincible."
He grabs my arm before I can refuse and forces me down onto a crate.
"You stand, you bleed out. You sit, you live. Simple math."
Ember snickers under her breath.
I shoot her a look.
She tilts her head innocently.
The medic kneels in front of me, and hisses softly.
"You were planning to fight like this?"
"I was walking."
"Walking to where? Your funeral?"
He presses his hands to my ribs and warm, tingling healing energy seeps into the wound. The pain dulls. The bleeding slows. My vision stops pulsing.
Ember sits beside me, one leg crossed over the other, elbows resting on her knees. She watches the medic work, her long hair falling forward like curtains.
"You know," she says, glancing sideways at me with a smirk, "you're really lucky I found you."
"I was handling it."
"Sure," she replies, "if by 'handling it' you mean 'leaking all over the street.'"
I open my mouth to retort, but the fox-mask medic taps my side sharply.
"Stop flirting," he orders without looking up.
My face heats. Ember chokes on air.
"We're not—" I start.
"I don't care what you are," the medic snaps. "Just hold still."
Ember covers her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
The medic finishes, ties a reinforced binding around my torso, and pats it once with finality.
"Do not tear this open," he warns. "If you do, I won't fix it again."
I inhale carefully.
It hurts less.
"Thanks," I say.
He nods once and moves on.
Ember nudges my shoulder. "Feel stable?"
"Stable enough."
"Good," she says, leaning back on her hands.
A distant rumble shakes dust loose from the rafters.
I turn my head.
Ember slowly stands, expression tightening.
"Dagian…"
The Imgrel's shadow is shifting.
No—
Peeling.
The outer smoke-like layer that gave it that wraith-like silhouette begins to tear apart, strips of black drifting away like burnt cloth.
"What is it doing?" Ember whispers.
My throat goes dry.
"Changing," I say.
The smoke dissolves—
And a different shape emerges beneath.
Not smoke. Not shadow. Not a towering blur.
A giant humanoid, solid and metal-dark, steps through the remains of its own previous form.
A crown of long rigid spikes circles its head like a fractured halo.Its body is obsidian-black, vein-lined with cracks of molten light. Its limbs are enormous, heavy, sculpted like armor grown from flesh. And in the center of its chest—
—A perfect void.
Black.
Alive.
Pulling everything toward it.
Hunters across the outpost shout. Some scream. Others run for cover.
The Imgrel lifts its head.
The sky dims with it.
It breathes in—
—BOOM—
A shockwave tears across the district, slamming into us.
The triage tents whip backward. Crates topple. A few Hunters stumble and crash to the ground.
Ember grabs my arm to steady herself. I catch her elbow.
We both stare.
The Imgrel takes its first true step.
The earth cracks for miles. A hill collapses. A cluster of homes vanish under the shock.
A barrier dome flickers desperately around the inner district. Hunters scatter like insects.
Ember whispers, barely audible:
"…Dagian… we can't fight that."
My heart thuds once—heavy, painful.
"No," I say quietly. "We can't."
The Imgrel takes its second step.
And the district screams.
The Imgrel takes another step, and the shock of it ripples through the outpost like a heartbeat hitting the ground.
Crates jump.
Lamps sway.
Even the air feels tighter, like the atmosphere itself is bracing for impact.
Ember stands next to me, staring at the distant titan with a clenched jaw, red jacket whipped by the passing tremor.
"What's the plan?" she says, voice low. "Do we join the strike squad? Stay and defend?"
Normally, I'd already be analyzing angles, distances, escape routes, weak points.Normally, my mind would be running ten calculations at once, no hesitation.
But not tonight.
Not now.
Because that shaking—that roar—that force tearing across the city—
For the first time, I imagine something I've never allowed myself to imagine.
Getting home too late.
My stomach knots.
My breath staggers.
And suddenly all the noise around me — the shouted orders, the clatter of weapons, the distant screams — fades into nothing.
Ember notices.
"Dagian?" she says softly.
I look toward the outer edge of the city.
The direction of the old stone roads.
The way the rooftops slope down.
The place where the buildings grow smaller, quieter.
Where my mother lives.
Where I grew up.
Where I left her tonight without saying anything.
She's tucked in the corner of the outskirts — far enough from the inner districts to feel isolated, close enough to still be considered part of the city.
She likes the silence.
Says it reminds her of before things got bad.
And right now—
The thought hits me like another shockwave:
What if I never see her again?
My lungs tighten.
My body goes cold.
Fear — real fear — slides under my ribs, deeper than the wound, deeper than anything the Ravorn did to me.
Ember steps closer, confused. "Dagian…?"
I try to swallow, but my voice is raw when it finally slips out.
"I can't—"The words catch."…I can't lose her."
Ember's expression softens instantly. She places a steadying hand on my arm.
"She's strong. She'll hide, she'll—"
"No," I cut her off, voice shaking more than I want to admit.
I exhale shakily, staring at the streets stretching out toward the outskirts.
"Tonight… for the first time… I'm afraid."
Ember blinks slowly, taken off guard by the honesty.
But something else rises inside me, sharp and bitter.
A memory.
A promise.
Or maybe a wound.
"I'm not leaving her," I whisper. "Not like he did."
Ember's brows furrow. "He…?"
I don't give her the chance to ask anything else.
Pain flares through my side as I push forward, but adrenaline drowns most of it. My body moves before my thoughts catch up.
"Dagian—wait—!" Ember calls out.
But I'm already running.
I weave between stretchers, past medics shouting at me to stop, past Hunters moving supplies, past collapsed columns and flickering lantern posts.
The shattered streets blur under my feet.
My wound throbs.
My vision shakes.
My heartbeat hammers against my sternum.
I don't care.
I'm not running because the Imgrel is heading toward her. I'm not running because of orders. I'm not running because I think I can make a difference in the battle.
I'm running because the fear in my chest is louder than every roar in the sky.
I'm running because for the first time in my life, the thought of not seeing her face again terrifies me more than anything outside the walls.
And because—
Isabella.
Her name flashes through my mind like a spark.
The girl I hid from the Hunters. The one no one knows about. The one I sheltered and swore quietly to protect.
She's waiting in that house too.
She trusts me.
And if I don't go now—
If I hesitate—
If I try to be the perfect soldier instead of a son—
I'll lose everything.
"I'm not leaving you," I whisper as I sprint through the cracked streets. "Not like him. Never like him."
Another tremor hits.
A rooftop collapses in the distance.
Ember's voice echoes faintly behind me—
"Dagian!"
But by then—
I'm already gone.