The camp was cloaked in twilight, the orange embers of dying fires casting flickering shadows over the tents and scattered soldiers. A quiet hum of restless voices floated through the air, but inside the command tent, a tense silence gripped the room. Zackline stood by the tall window, her slender fingers curling tightly around the cold wooden frame as her amber eyes pierced the horizon beyond.
A cold breeze swept through the opening, brushing strands of her dark hair against her cheeks, but it was the icy knot in her chest that truly unsettled her. She had felt it for days now — a storm looming, dark and unyielding. It was not just the coming war, no. It was something more personal, more dangerous. A shadow creeping toward Zack and Keal.
Her breath caught, and her heart clenched. "They don't see it… They don't know what's coming, but I do," she whispered, voice thick with both fear and fierce determination.
She turned sharply, pacing the room like a caged wolf, each step heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. "They're like wildfire, untamable, reckless—and I can't stand to watch them burn without a shield."
Her voice dropped to a desperate murmur. "Zack… Keal… I've watched them dance on the edge of death too many times. They need a refuge, a place untouched by the poison of this war."
Her fingers dug into the windowsill until her nails bit into the wood. "The Imperial City." She said the words like a prayer. "Neutral ground. A sanctuary. The only place where they might just live."
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but her jaw was set firm. "I've already sent the application. Keal will enter the Academy's first year. It's a gamble… but it's their best chance."
Her gaze hardened. "If I lose them… if I lose either of them to this madness… I swear I'll tear this world apart."
The tent flap rustled behind her. She didn't need to turn to know it was her aunt, bearing the weight of the war like a storm cloud in her eyes.
"It's time," her aunt's voice was low but certain. "War planning begins now."
Zackline swallowed hard, steeling herself. "Then let them come." She clenched her fists, fiery resolve igniting her voice. "We'll make sure they survive this. No matter what hell comes our way, I will not—cannot—let them fall."
Her aunt gave a brief nod, then turned to leave. Zackline's eyes lingered on the horizon once more, the distant city lights twinkling like fragile hope.
The creak of tent flaps echoed as Zackline and Lady Meraina stepped into the grand command tent. Lanterns swung gently overhead, casting flickering light across maps, war banners, and the stern faces of knights and generals. Outside, the camp crackled with readiness: men checking armor, horses stamping, drums waiting to be raised.
At the head of the long oak table stood Queen Zellene, regal and composed in her silver‑trimmed armor. Around her were the war council: Zackline standing tall at her side; Lady Meraina, bearing the weight of royal blood and battle wisdom; Baron Kestel, precise and watchful; the Mid King, calm behind a mask of thought; and Duke Harlan, whose outward allegiance masked hidden intrigue.
The room fell silent as Zellene raised her hand.
"You have all come," she said, voice low but resonant. "Tonight, we are not simply kings or generals. We are the defenders of every hearth and every hope in Weton."
She took a step closer. "Zackline, you will lead the vanguard through the Whispering Vale. Strike swiftly, break their lines, unsettle their command. I will remain here in central command, with Meraina and Baron Kestel, to manage reserves and defenses. Duke Harlan, your task is to guard the rear. Secure our supply routes. Prevent betrayal."
At that moment the Duke's jaw clenched just slightly—a flicker of tension in his eyes. His voice was calm. "As your will, Queen."
Zellene turned to her sister. Her tone softened. "Zackline, I know the danger you sense is not only for this war. I know your worry extends beyond banners and battalions." Her voice grew stronger. "But we cannot be governed by fear. That which we love must be protected, yes—but also forged in fire."
She raised her arm, looking each council member in the eye. "If we do this with half a heart, we lose. But if we stand united—with full conviction—no blade, no dark force, no shadow can claim what we fight for."
She paused, the lantern light dancing across the drawn faces before her.
> "We fight not for conquest, but for life. For peace, for justice, for every quiet morning our people wake to. We fight because the darkness is gathering, and if we wait for it to fall upon us, we are already defeated."
A hush fell.
She stepped forward, placing a gauntlet on the map. "The Eastern Kingdom advances in silence. Their patrols vanish. Their scouts do not poke beyond the borders. Such quiet is not peace—it's a mask for darker ambition."
Her amber eyes flicked to Zackline. "Sister, your instincts warned you well. The danger that chills your spine—not only for this land, but for those you hold dear—is not something born of panic. It is truth seeking to break free."
Zackline's heart tightened. She bowed slightly, deferring to the Queen.
Meraina's voice cut in. "We have intercepted messages with symbols matching the Koran Clan. Their shadow stretches further than we dared believe."
Baron Kestel steepled his fingers. "We risk overextending. Supply lines must hold. If we strike too soon, we leave ourselves vulnerable."
Duke Harlan's tone was measured. "Better caution than a trap. The Eastern forces must show themselves before we commit everything."
Zellene turned, gaze passing through them all. "Caution is wisdom—but inaction is death. We will not wait for our enemies to hoose the field. We will force the field ourselves."
Zellene's voice, resolute and clear, rang out one final time:
> "Let it be known across our lands: Weton will not yield. Weton will not kneel. When darkness comes, we shall be the light that burns across its heart."
The council rose in unison. Swords tapped shields. Fists pounded tables.
Meraina stepped close to Zackline and whispered, "Go. Lead early. Move now while they hesitate."
Zackline nodded, chest tight. The Queen placed a hand on her shoulder. "Bring them home."
Zackline bowed, and as footsteps echoed outward, she cast one last glance across the flickering map. The path ahead was uncertain—but her resolve had never been sharper.
Outside, drums thundered. The war began.
The courtyard was a massacre. A river of blood snaked through broken stone and shattered wood, pooling around bodies twisted in final agony. The stench of iron filled the air, mixing with the damp night chill.
Keal was barely standing, his body covered in cuts and bruises, his breath sharp and shallow. Around him were fallen enemies — nearly a dozen of them — but more kept coming.
Kira blurred forward like a streak of black lightning, her ink blade slashing toward his chest.
"KEAL!" Zack's voice rang out, too late.
But just as the blade neared Keal's heart—
Zack appeared.
No wind. No flash. Just space bent, and he was there, his hand pressed against Kira's back.
His eyes were dark, glowing faintly violet.
> [SKILL USED: VOID TOUCH — SAINT RANK]