The night air outside the palace was tense, thick with fog and the faint pulse of Fourth Order magic. Riven moved swiftly, the weight of what he had just seen pressing against his chest, and the exhilaration of having felt Nyss's core again lighting a fire beneath his skin.
"Everyone," he said, gathering his pack in a shadowed alcove, "she's here. Nyss. She's… more than I thought."
Roran, Marlis, and Lyra turned, anticipation and caution etched on their faces.
"Explain," Lyra said, voice low, her eyes scanning the perimeter.
Riven exhaled sharply, recounting the moment in the bath chamber, the core resonance, and the alignment that had taken him by surprise. The pack absorbed every word, awe and concern mingling in their expressions.
Before anyone could respond, a chill settled over the group.
"No disguises. No shadows," a voice cut through the fog. Calm. Precise. Deadly.
The pack tensed. Lyra's eyes narrowed.
"Ysara Luneth," she murmured, her tone sharp.
From the mist, two silhouettes emerged, cloaked in the soft luminescence of Fourth Order sigils. The taller, Vaelor Fang, silent and imposing. Beside him, Ysara Luneth, silver-haired, dark-eyed, every movement measured, controlled, and impossibly fast.
"Why are you stationed here?" Ysara asked, voice soft but commanding. "Your positions were elsewhere. Tonight is not… normal. A special event deployment orders are immutable."
Riven's jaw tightened. "We were restationed," he said, deliberately calm.
Ysara tilted her head. Her silver eyes glimmered unnaturally. "No," she whispered, almost to herself. "Soldiers are not moved during these ceremonies. Not without leave. Not without notice."
With that, the air around her seemed to bend. Magic wove in invisible threads, faster than the eye could follow, sharper than steel. Lyra stepped back, recognizing the superior weave of her power immediately.
In an instant, Ysara's spell saw through their disguises. The Fourth Order sigils, the altered faces, the cloaking enchantments all undone.
"You are intruders," Ysara said, voice serene but lethal. "And the entire palace shall know it."
Riven's instincts screamed. Without hesitation, he charged forward and slammed his fist into a marble pillar, sending stone and dust erupting into the foggy night. The cloud spread like a wall, obscuring their position and giving the pack precious seconds to move.
"Now!" Riven barked. They bolted, leaping through the dust, feet barely touching the ground as they surged into the open field beyond the palace walls.
But the Fourth Order's response was immediate. From every angle, soldiers poured into the clearing, sigils glowing, weapons drawn, magical wards flaring with energy. The pack was surrounded.
Lyra hissed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I told you this was a bad idea!"
Riven's lips curled, dark and resolute. "Well… here we are now."
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Roran lunged first, claws extended, striking down the nearest guard with precise efficiency. Marlis followed, a blur of movement, dispatching two more with shadowed strikes. Lyra's magic flared, bending perception, creating illusory duplicates of the pack to confuse the enemy ranks.
Riven's core flared silver and dark lunar energy twisting beneath his skin as he sprinted forward. With a single swing of his arm, he sent a squad of guards sprawling, the sheer force of his Night Wolf strength tearing through their formation.
Ysara and Vaelor observed from a distance, their eyes locked on the hybrid wolf leading his pack with a feral grace that no ordinary soldier could match.
"Predictable," Ysara murmured. "But not… weak."
The night erupted into chaos, wolf against soldier, magic against claw and fang. Riven moved like a force of nature, each strike precise, each dodge calculated, protecting his pack while maintaining the offensive.
Even as the numbers pressed in, Lyra's voice rang out beside him: "Riven! We can't hold them forever!"
He growled, eyes gleaming. "Then we make every second count."
The clearing became a storm of motion and energy. Guards lunged, Night Wolf auras flared, and for a heartbeat, it was the hybrid against the army, a reckoning born of survival, desperation, and a singular purpose: Nyss.
And above the field, the fog swirled as if the Moon itself had leaned closer to watch the fight unfold.