Selandra's body trembled as Noctis leaned in closer. His hand shifted, and with a sharp twist of motion his knee pressed against her neck, cutting her cry short. The shock ran through her spine, her limbs spasming against the chains. Her eyes rolled, breath choking in her throat. She went limp for a moment, unconscious from the pressure.
Noctis released her and stood over the bed, watching as she slumped in the bindings. A smile crept across his face, slow and cruel.
"This," he said softly, his voice filling the warded chamber, "is only the first of many to come."
The crystals flickered. The shadows swelled.
Noctis remained in Selandra's chamber. The keep went about its days and nights, unknowing. None dared to intrude, not even her closest attendants. Vampires were known to vanish into long periods of rest, their chambers sealed for weeks, months, sometimes years. And Selandra was a Matriarch; her will was law, her silence unquestioned. Unless blood urgency demanded it, none would disturb her.
Noctis knew this, and he bent it to his advantage.
For days, she lay bound by his chains. Every night he returned, breaking her marrow, unraveling her pride, stripping away each fragment of the mask she had carried for centuries. Each time she resisted, he drowned her in his aura, drained her of her strength until her breath came shallow and her voice could only plead. Each time she summoned her power, it bled away into the bindings, devoured before it could take form. She learned quickly that nothing in this chamber belonged to her—not her body, not her will, not even her silence.
On the thirteenth night, she broke.
Her eyes no longer burned with defiance. They had dulled into glass, reflecting only him. Where once she cried in fear, now she whispered in trembling voice, low and needy, desperate for his presence. Her resistance had not only fallen—it had inverted. She craved him, craved the aura that crushed her, the hand that bound her, the voice that commanded her.
She straddled him that night, her body moving to his rhythm without command. The blue crystal fire threw her shadow onto the walls, long and fluid, a dark silhouette swaying in motion with him. Her lips parted in soft cries, not of pain now, but of surrender, every breath an admission of how far she had fallen.
Noctis smiled, crimson eyes glowing as he watched her writhe. He saw not defiance, not fear, but a Matriarch undone—his chains wound deeper than flesh, bound into her marrow.
Her voice broke in a final cry, and then she collapsed against his chest, trembling, whispers spilling from her lips. "I am yours… I am yours…"
Noctis laughed, the sound low and sharp. He rolled her over and bound her again, his strength pressing until her body arched once more. Her voice shook with both exhaustion and submission, but she no longer begged him to stop.
When the silence finally settled, her body lay slack in the chains, her eyes glassed and her mouth forming words again and again.
"I surrender… I am yours… forever…"
Noctis leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Say it. Say it with clarity."
Her voice broke into a sob, but she obeyed.
"I pledge my servitude to you, Vaeltharion Noctis. I surrender all of me. My blood, my marrow, my soul."
The oath hung in the air, binding itself into the marrow of her words.
Noctis smiled, pleased at last. He sank his fangs into her throat one more time, drinking deep. Her cry filled the chamber, trembling and weak, her body arching once before collapsing again. The Grid flared before his eyes.
[ Veilblood Matriarch Subjugated ][ Veilblood Essence Integrated ][ Bloodline Techniques Unlocked ]
Noctis pulled back, his lips wet with her blood. He gazed down at her, trembling and bound, whispering still.
Her body was broken. Her will was broken. Her clan would follow soon enough.
The Sovereign's laughter filled the warded room.
Ten days before the Obsidian Isles fell under shadow, the unified armies of Twilight and Ashara thundered eastward.
The march began before dawn. Frost still clung to the plains like a burial shroud, crusted white beneath iron-shod boots. Every step cracked the ground open with a dry, splintering sound, as if the land itself were being broken and reshaped beneath the host. Breath steamed from thousands of mouths in steady rhythm, rising in low clouds that blurred banners and helms alike.
They moved in lockstep.
No shouted commands carried down the line. None were needed. Drums set the cadence—slow, heavy, inexorable—and the army answered with its stride. Banner poles creaked under the strain of wind, their sigils snapping sharp and clean: Twilight's crescent black upon crimson, Ashara's burning sun etched in gold, and between them the iron sigil of Mountain Thrones, stark and unadorned.
At the foothills of the sacred range, the legions of Mountain Thrones joined the column.
Their arrival was not subtle. Iron-clad ranks emerged from the stone passes like an avalanche given form, armor layered thick, shields scarred by generations of ritual war. Great warhammers rested across shoulders, their heads etched with runes dulled by age rather than neglect. When they fell into formation, the ground trembled—not from speed, but from mass. From certainty.
This was holy ground they marched to reclaim.
From ridge to horizon, tens of thousands moved beneath a single banner of purpose. Not conquest. Not glory. Destruction. The demon lair rooted in the sacred grounds of Mountain Thrones had festered too long, its corruption bleeding into stone, soil, and sky. It would be burned out. Torn free. Erased so completely that no echo of it would remain.
At the head of the host strode Lyxandra, Queen of Twilight.
Her armor caught the pale morning light and threw it back cold and sharp, frost tracing the edges of her pauldrons like living filigree. The crown upon her brow gleamed faintly, its presence pressing against the air itself, quiet but absolute. She did not look back to check her army. She did not need to. Her gaze was fixed eastward, toward the mountains, toward the stain they were marching to excise.
Beside her rode Seraphyne of Ashara.
Her helm was strapped at her hip, firelight glinting along the edge of her blade as it rested point-down across the saddle. Wind tugged loose strands of her hair free, snapping them behind her like banners of flame. Her eyes burned with focus—not rage, not fury, but resolve honed thin and hard. Where Lyxandra was winter, Seraphyne was the promise of a cleansing blaze.
Behind them marched Veyra, Archdeacon of the Cathedral.
Her vestments were heavy with layered sigils, cloth woven with sanctified thread that drank in the cold. She walked rather than rode, staff striking the frozen ground in steady rhythm. Around her moved ranks of priests and zealots, their armor lighter, their weapons simpler, but their voices rose together in thunderous cadence. Hymns rolled down the column in waves, not pleading, not hopeful, but declarative—statements of judgment cast into the air like iron.
The sound changed the march.
Where the hymns passed, the frost seemed to dull, the wind to steady. Soldiers straightened without realizing it. Fatigue pulled back, held at bay by faith reinforced through shared breath and shared voice.
Interwoven among the living tide strode the Fourteen Saints of the Night Legions.
They did not march in step. They did not sing. They moved as sovereign blades forged by Noctis himself, black steel armor drinking in light rather than reflecting it. Their presence bent the space around them subtly, an unspoken pressure that made nearby soldiers unconsciously give them room. Weapons hummed faintly at their sides, not from motion, but from contained force waiting to be unleashed.
Where they passed, the hymns dimmed—not silenced, but muted, as if the air itself chose to listen instead.
The earth trembled beneath the weight of the march.
Not from chaos. Not from disorder.
From unity.
From inevitability.
And far ahead, beyond the frozen plains and the rising stone, something dark stirred in answer—an unclean awareness awakening to the sound of an army that had come not to bargain, not to siege, but to end it.
The march did not slow.
It only continued forward.
The mountains rose black against the sky, their jagged crowns catching the faint fire of dawn. Once, these slopes had been holy—stone carved with runes of the First Thrones, where pilgrims bared their feet to walk the sacred ridges. Noctis's wraiths had whispered of the corruption, but now the armies of Twilight, Ashara, and Mountain Thrones saw it with their own eyes.
The holy ground was gone.
Where sanctity had lain was a wound. Bone spires jutted like jagged spears from the ridges, marrow glowing faint red in their seams. Smoke poured from fissures, black with ash, heavy with the sulfur stench of abyssal flame. Abyssal banners snapped in the cold wind, woven from hide and blood, etched with sigils that writhed when the eye lingered too long. The lair spread across the mountain's face like rot.
The armies halted at the ridgeline. Tens of thousands filled the slopes, banners lifting with the dawn. Black and silver for Twilight, crimson and gold for Ashara, white for the clergy's sanctity. Behind them loomed the heavy-helmed legions of Mountain Thrones, their shields gleaming with mountain-forged iron. Drums rolled across the range, echoing from peak to peak.
And then the ground shook.
At the fore marched the Saints—fourteen in number, their armor forged by Noctis's hand, black sigils burning across their plate. They strode like sovereigns of battle, blades at their sides. At their backs rose shadows taller than towers.
The Titan Breakers.
Fourteen of them.
Each forged from dragon bone, abyssal marrow, and sovereign crystal. Their frames gleamed with runed plating, each joint bound with veins of bloodsteel that pulsed with faint crimson light. They stood on two legs, armored like gods of war, and in their hands burned weapons taller than fortress gates—holy greatswords, each carved from dragon bone, inscribed with runes of sanctity, each blade as wide as a house and longer than ten men.
The Saints raised their hands. The Breakers answered, their eyes flaring crimson in unison.
The demons saw them.
At first only silence spread across the abyssal host. The swarms lined the lair's ridges—thousands upon thousands of snarling beasts, their claws scraping stone, their wings twitching with hunger. Abyss zealots raised their staves, their chants faltering as they glimpsed the titanic silhouettes of the Breakers. Siege beasts shifted uneasily, their massive heads swinging side to side, smoke pouring from their jaws.
Fear spread through the abyss like fire through dry grass.
Then came the frenzy.
With a scream that split the air, the swarm broke from its ridges and charged. Claws scraped stone, wings thundered, zealots shrieked curses. The horde poured down the mountainside in a black tide, reckless and desperate, as though trying to drown their fear with sheer numbers.
The Saints did not move. Their eyes glowed faint behind helm visors. They lifted their blades and spoke as one, voices carrying across the army like iron striking iron.
"Advance."
The armies moved.
Twilight's cohorts locked shields, their black armor gleaming, spears braced as they advanced in disciplined wedges. Ashara's cavalry wheeled to the flanks, banners streaming, lances blazing with crimson light. The clergy lifted their staves, their voices rising in hymns that rolled across the field, their chants breaking the abyssal curses that clawed at the ears. Mountain Thrones' legions slammed their axes against shields and advanced with steady steps, a wall of iron pressing forward.
And then the Breakers strode.
The earth cracked beneath their steps, stone breaking under the weight of sovereign forging. Fourteen titans of bone and bloodsteel, their greatswords raised high, marched in line before the armies. Each step sent a tremor through the ground. Each step carried the weight of Noctis's will.
The swarm met them at the base of the slope.
The first clash was annihilation.
One Breaker swung its sword in a wide arc, the blade blazing with sanctity, and an entire cohort of demon beasts was severed in half. Their bodies dissolved into ash before they struck the ground. Another Breaker brought its blade down in an overhead cleave, the strike shattering a siege beast's skull, splitting it in two from horn to maw. The air filled with the roar of impact, the crash of steel on bone, the shrieks of demons split apart.
The swarm surged in desperation, climbing onto the Breakers' limbs, tearing at their armor with claws and fangs. But bloodsteel plating was sovereign-forged; the demons' strikes left nothing but sparks. A Breaker shook its arm, hundreds of demons flung from its frame like insects. Another raised its foot and stamped, the impact crushing a wave of zealots into pulp.
From the flanks, Ashara's cavalry swept in, their lances striking the gaps left in the swarm by the Breakers' swings. Twilight's wedges drove forward in the wake of the constructs, spears piercing demons thrown aside by titanic blades. Veyra's clergy sang louder, their hymns burning across the battlefield. Their sanctity wove into the Breakers' runes, the greatswords blazing brighter, every swing leaving arcs of holy fire in the air.
The battlefield was ordered chaos.
Demons fought in madness, clawing and shrieking, their frenzy breaking formation. Mortals fought in discipline, line supporting line, flank supporting flank, each step taken in cadence with drum and horn. Between them strode the Breakers, fourteen titanic constructs carving order into the abyss, their swords cutting swathes through the swarm.
One Breaker stooped low, its blade sweeping the ground in a wide arc. Thousands of winged fiends were cut from the air in a single strike, their bodies dissolving into black ash that rained over the battlefield. Another leapt forward with a sound like thunder, its greatsword piercing a siege beast's chest and lifting the hulking demon from the ground before slamming it into stone. The cliffs shook, rocks breaking free and tumbling down the mountainside.
The Saints moved with them, their voices carrying commands, their auras channeling into the Breakers' cores. Each saint tethered to a construct, their wills guiding the giants as if extensions of their own bodies. Where one raised a hand, the Breaker swung its sword. Where one turned their gaze, the Breaker's eyes flared brighter. Sovereign symbiosis turned fourteen titans into one will.
The swarm broke against them like water against stone.
For every thousand that charged, ten thousand were cut down. For every siege beast that roared, a greatsword answered. The lair's slopes ran black with ichor, rivers of demon blood pooling at the feet of the Breakers.
Yet still the abyss poured forth. The swarm seemed endless, demons climbing over the corpses of their own to hurl themselves into sovereign blades. Zealots screamed their chants until their throats tore, wings blotted out the sky with their black clouds, siege beasts hurled fire until their own marrow burned.
And still, the Breakers cut them down.
The ground trembled again, deeper, fissures cracking open, abyssal fire spilling from its seams. A roar broke across the range, louder than thunder, shaking the bones of every soldier. From the lair's heart, a summoning circle ignited, crimson fire blazing, glyphs burning even from the ridges. The air itself bent beneath the pressure of the void.
The mountain shook as the battle raged on, fissures glowing red across the ridges. But the Breakers did not falter. Their greatswords blazed in arcs of fire, each swing cutting through the abyss like a scythe through harvest.
One Breaker cleaved down an entire ridge, its blade cutting not just flesh but stone, splitting a wave of zealots into ash and shattering the cliff beneath their feet. Another drove its sword into the chest of a siege beast, the runes igniting, the impact blasting the creature apart in a shower of marrow flame. The constructs moved like giants born of war, each step shaking the ground, each strike echoing like thunder.
The Saints commanded without hesitation, their voices carrying across the battlefield. "Left flank!" cried one, and the Breaker under his tether pivoted, its greatsword carving through a cluster of winged fiends that had broken formation. "Advance!" cried another, and his titan stepped forward, its blade raised high, scattering demons before its radiance.
The mortal armies pressed close in formation, their discipline unbroken. Twilight's wedges drove like spearheads behind the constructs, their shields braced against the shockwaves of every strike. Ashara's cavalry swept the flanks, lances glowing with sovereign-forged light as they struck demons thrown clear by the Breakers. Mountain Thrones' legions advanced in a wall of iron, axes rising and falling in unison, their chants echoing across the peaks. And Veyra's clergy stood with staves raised high, their hymns pouring sanctity into the Breakers' cores. Every note blazed across the runes, making their swords burn brighter, their steps heavier, their strikes deadlier.
The abyss responded with desperation. More swarms poured from the fissures, climbing over corpses and rubble, shrieking as they hurled themselves into certain death. Siege beasts dragged themselves from pits, hurling boulders and flame across the field. Winged demons dove from the skies in black torrents, their screeches piercing the air.
But nothing slowed the Breakers.
One rolled aside as a siege beast lunged, the motion impossibly fluid for a frame of such size. Its sword swung in answer, cleaving the beast from shoulder to hip, marrow fire bursting from the wound. Another ducked low beneath a crashing boulder, then surged forward, blade piercing through both beast and stone in a single thrust. The constructs fought not as machines, but as titans alive, their movements flowing with martial grace.
Demons tried to swarm them, clinging to their limbs, tearing at joints. The Breakers shook them off with thunderous force, or carved them away with their own blades. Each strike sent bodies flying like leaves in a storm. Thousands fell with every motion.
The ground was black with ichor, the air thick with ash, the cliffs shaking with every step. But the armies did not falter. They advanced behind their titans, their formations unbroken, their chants rising louder.
The lair quaked again, the summoning circle blazing brighter. Fire rose from the mountain's heart, the abyss answering with fury. Something vast clawed at the edges of the circle, a shadow larger than the Breakers themselves stirring within the flames.
The Demonic Titan was coming.
And the Breakers stood ready, their swords raised, their eyes blazing with sovereign fire.