A Shroud Undone (A Fractured Balance #1)

Prologue

Ash drifted through the air like gray snow, thick enough to choke the sky and turn every breath into a rasp. Captain Kaylin stood on the ridge and stared down at the valley through the haze. Smoke rose in lazy columns from fires that had burned all night. The stench of blood and burnt flesh clung to everything.

“The Stillight always takes more than it gives,” he muttered. He kept his voice low, but the words tasted bitter all the same. “And we’re the fools who keep proving it.”

The heavens above him hung dark, swollen, and horrible, with thick clouds pressing in and smothering all inclination of hope. Breathing came harder with every lungful, the smoke thickening until it scratched and tore at his throat and stung his eyes. Blood carried the strongest scent of all, that sharp metallic tang coating his tongue no matter how many times he spat. So many now dead. Faces he knew flashed in his mind, men he had eaten meager meals with just days before, sharing memories over stale bread and watered ale as if tomorrow was guaranteed. Now, most of them lay scattered across the blackened earth.

It had been nearly a year of fighting in this cursed valley, a slow bleed of lives and hope under relentless assaults.

But the next day would settle it all, one way or another.

The decisive clash loomed, the kind that ended campaigns or broke armies for good.

Ash drifted down in endless flurries, gray flakes that caught the faint light like falling ghosts.

It settled on his armor in a fine layer, clinging to the dents and scratches from battles past.

He brushed it off with a gauntleted hand, watching the gray dust scatter on the wind.

But more came right away, as if the sky itself mourned and could not stop weeping.

He stood there amid the ruin, the weight of it all pressing on his shoulders heavier than any plate.

Tomorrow would bring fire and steel again, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he would see another dawn.

“Huh?” Bram asked. “What’d you say, Cap?”

“Nothing,” Kaylin replied. “Thinking aloud, that’s all.”

Below them, the valley sprawled in a wreck of bodies and broken steel. Whatever last night had been, it didn’t feel like a victory now. The dead were everywhere. Their weapons snapped and scattered. Some bodies wore nothing but rags, while others had the decency to rest in full armor, but it was all streaked with blood and grime. Dead eyes stared up towards the sky, as if they were hoping for something resembling help, mercy, or anything else that might save them. But it would never come. The wind carried the dying’s last sounds. Human, Sylphar, it made no difference. Suffering didn’t choose sides.

The Temple rose in the distance, barely visible through the smoke. He wasn’t sure if it looked like their salvation or their doom. Probably both. The weak light illuminated the enormous gate, and the enemy’s banners hung defiantly. Somewhere inside, the Stillight waited. Kaylin grew up with the stories, of course, but still didn’t know what it was. Not really. He could feel its Influence weighing on his chest with an almost smothering sensation.

He leaned on his spear and squinted into the valley. A section of the human infantry moved forward in a crooked line, their steps sounding scared and uneven as they passed the crumbling remains of a long-ago destroyed village. The Sylphar moved with precision, advancing to meet them. Their formations were tight, their armor gleaming, and their banner a blue so vivid it looked unnatural in this gloom. The dead had already drawn the lines. The living were just trying to redraw them.

As he watched, he heard light and deliberate footsteps approaching from behind him. He turned to find Joss carrying their standard and wearing that infuriating grin of his. His white teeth contrasted sharply in the smoke and grime, and black ash and soot covered his face like everyone else.

“Miss the rain yet?” Joss asked, shaking the flag free of grime. “I’ve got ash in places I didn’t know I had.”

Kaylin gave a half-smile. Joss’s jokes were more ritual than humor, and Kaylin had been clinging to them more often lately. They helped take the edge off.

“You can scrub it off after we take the steps,” he said, voice dry. “Or start now if you’re feeling ambitious.”

Although he snorted, Joss’s gaze remained fixed on the valley. The Sylphar commander raised a hand, and the phalanx shifted. They locked their shields and tightened their formations. The humans hesitated, then surged forward, trampling over the dead and dying.

The fighting was brutal. Blades cut through armor, spears found gaps, and the wounded screamed in the air. But the Sylphar simply kept moving, running over the dead as though they were rocks in the ground. It wasn’t bravery. Kaylin had seen it before. It was instinct. Something carved into them deeper than fear or sorrow.

He looked back at his squad. Including him, only ten soldiers remained out of his original fourteen. They were all young, none older than thirty. Steel mostly hid their faces, but their shadowed eyes said everything. Some looked to him for orders. Others stared at the temple as if it might save them.

A horn sounded. It was thin, high, definitely Sylphar. Then, a deeper horn boomed, coming from the human lines. The two notes tangled in the air, a kind of music no one wanted to hear. Joss tilted his head, listening.

“Think they’ll break before noon?” he asked.

“They’ll hold,” Kaylin said. “Until the Stillight says otherwise.”

He shifted his grip on the spear, fingers brushing the old cracks and repairs. It had seen too many fights.

So had he.

A gust stirred the ash. For a moment, a flicker of gold lit a window near the temple’s peak. Joss saw it too. His grin vanished. The squad stiffened as one and went quiet.

“That’s it,” someone said softly, voice muffled by the wind. “The Stillight’s changed.”

“Just the sun,” another muttered, not sounding convinced.

But Kaylin felt it. Something had shifted.

Across the valley, the Sylphar reserves advanced. Their movements were now frantic and hurried, as if the changing of the Stillight spurred a panic into them. On the right side, what remained of the human cavalry gathered behind a row of broken carts. Their banner, tattered and sagging, barely held together in the wind.

Kaylin looked at his squad again. They were ready, in the hollow way soldiers get when they’ve run out of fear. They’d survived too much to be scared now.

“On your feet,” he said. They rose.

Joss planted the flag. “Think the Stillight’s in a good mood?”

Kaylin didn’t answer right away. “We can hope.”

The signal horn sounded, closer to them down the hill. The reserve squads all broke cover and started down the slope. They’d been here all night, waiting for this moment. Banners snapped in the wind, white and gold against the gray.

Kaylin glanced back at the Temple, and his heart sank. The gold light emanating from the windows was gone, and now red glowed in its place. Nodding to himself, he looked back towards his men. It didn’t matter what the Stillight said; they were all likely headed toward their deaths anyway. He stared back at his men and, in their eyes, he saw the same grim understanding reflected at him.

He raised the spear, gave a single nod, and led them down the slope.

The ridge pushed them down like a knife, narrowing the world to one savage option… into the gaping jaws of an open battlefield.

Kaylin inhaled deeply as he led the way down through a small canyon, breath quickening from the roughness of the path. Boots were sliding on what was supposed to be a well-kept slope, but now the ground was fresh with blood and ash, turning the dirt and rock into slippery mud. It looked like every step could go wrong, and if you made one simple mistake, you would end up tumbling downwards towards the bottom.

His squad kept themselves near: Joss with the banner, with Willan and Bram flanking him, and the rest clustered tightly behind them while trailing in a loose wedge shape. Another volley of arrows hissed dangerously above them while trying to cut through thick smoke.

Halfway down, the smell hit them harder than ever, reeking of months of rot, blood, and decay. Kaylin choked on bile for half a second, then forced it down. He scanned the slope that opened up below. Sylphar helmets were glinting on the ground, broken human shields and weapons to the left, and to the right lay a shattered siege engine. Its crew scattered around it, with open mouths and vacant eyes.

“Stay low!” he yelled as a bolt crashed into the ridge above, pelting them with dust and grit.

A voice called out from behind. “They’re coming!”

He saw three Sylphar below emerging from the fog and smoke, charging uphill with murder in their eyes. The first came in fast, spear aimed straight for Kaylin’s chest.

He caught it on his shield, the impact jarring his entire arm, then twisted and drove his own spear up into his attacker’s throat. It went in deep. The Sylphar twitched once, then dropped. Kaylin yanked the weapon free and turned to face the others.

Joss cracked the second one across the face with the standard pole, stunning it just long enough for Willan to finish the job. The third hesitated, then bolted back down, blood trailing from a ruined shoulder.

Six seconds. That’s all it took. The squad stood over the bodies, breathing hard, counting heads.

“Bloodthirsty fools. Good start though,” Joss muttered. No one laughed.

Time dragged as they made their final descent into the wide, shadowed area that nestled between two looming cliffs.

The task for him and his reserve squad was to advance through a maze of canyons and cliffs on the valley’s western flank.

A strategic choke point the Sylphar held.

The fighting here had been intense for the last few days.

Kaylin noticed that the noise had changed in here.

Less distant horns.

More the close-up sounds of dying and fighting.

He watched as in the distance men and Sylphar fell in twos and threes.

Each fight a mess of mud and steel.

Kaylin stepped over the body of a boy he recognized.

Bannon.

Barely fifteen.

Kaylin had given Bannon a drink out of his canteen just a few days back. Now, half of his face was gone. Taking a deep breath and shoving down his despair, Kaylin did not let himself stop as he led his squad to assist where they could.

He could not shake the memory of the morning orders.

Their commander had called him aside before dawn.

The man had always been solid.

Direct.

A voice that cut through the chaos like a blade.

But ever since they had entered this valley so many months ago, he had been different.

Distant.

Eyes always fixed somewhere beyond the campfires.

Kaylin had asked for the day’s plan, but the commander had merely stared at the ground distractedly and then muttered that Kaylin’s squad would be held in reserve.

To only move if the signal came.

No more.

No less.

Kaylin had pressed. Asked if the commander would be joining them to attempt the temple steps. The man had shaken his head.

Slow. Almost mechanical. No explanation. No fire in his voice. Just an empty shake of the head and a quiet turn away. Kaylin had watched him walk off into the haze. Something about the man’s shoulders had looked wrong. Like he carried more than armor. Like he already knew how the day would end.

Kaylin pushed the thought down.

There was no time for doubt.

Not now.

The valley waited.

The temple waited.

And whatever waited inside it would not care about a commander’s strange mood or a captain’s questions.

It would only care about who reached the steps first.

And who survived long enough to claim the Stillight.

He tightened his grip on his spear and kept moving.

The squad followed.

Silent.

Steady.

Into the smoke and the roar. Into whatever came next.

As the morning wore on, they engaged in a few more minor skirmishes as the smoke and ash got heavier by the minute.

Though Kaylin lost only one man, it was still one man too many.

The smoke soon filled the air even more, and seeing farther than even a few yards ahead was becoming much more difficult.

They needed to get out of here.

They kept moving, step by step, for another hour.

But the battlefield within these vast canyons had gone quiet.

No voices.

No movement.

Just the soft crunch of ash and dirt beneath their boots.

A place to rest and think was what he needed.

He scanned the haze for anything that might offer his men reprieve and spotted what looked like a large rock outcropping a dozen yards away, its edges barely visible through the smoke.

He raised a hand and signalled the others forward.

They moved slowly, boots dragging through the ash.

When they reached the base of the rocks, they stopped.

His men didn’t speak for a few minutes.

They knew the value of silence and of being able to catch their breath.

“This is getting bad,” Willan finally coughed out.

A few mutterings of agreement from the rest of the squad.

“We continue forward. We make for the steps. But be careful.” Kaylin ordered. “Stay vigilant, protect the man next to you. Let’s go.”

Keeping his eyes ahead, Kaylin’s every instinct was telling him that the enemy could be just a few yards away, waiting to strike. He raised a hand and signalled for his men to spread out in twos and threes, but remain close to one another. They moved carefully, boots sinking softly into the ash, weapons held ready.

He glanced at Bram and then gave a quick nod. Bram understood and slipped ahead without a word, disappearing into the smoke to scout the path forward.

Kaylin took a slow breath. The air was thick and bitter, getting harder to ignore. His thoughts wandered to his village. He imagined the war being over, the quiet of his peaceful home, the warmth of a fireplace. He pictured himself in his old chair, pipe in hand, listening to Old Dren’s flute as the sun dipped behind the mountains.

He snapped out of it and then chided himself. Those kinds of thoughts got you killed.

Another hour passed. The silence held.

Far ahead, they heard Bram scream in either surprise or pain, maybe both, and then go eerily silent. Willan made a sound as though someone had punched him in the gut, but he kept moving. Proceeding quietly and slowly, minute by minute, Kaylin couldn’t help but think this was all some sort of trap. Too concentrated on that dreadful thought, he almost tripped over Bram’s body. A deep slash rent him from shoulder to hip. A Sylphar greatsword, no doubt.”Eyes open,” he whispered harshly as he knelt down, eyes scanning all around them.

But they didn’t see anyone, and no attack came.

“Seems like a Sylphar scout then… and not a whole squad,” Joss said after a few tense minutes. “Bastard must’ve been hiding here for an easy kill before taking off.” Kaylin closed his eyes for a moment. Bram had been with him for nearly a year. When the time came to grieve, this one would hurt. But that moment wasn’t now. There was never any time to grieve anymore.

They kept moving, and with each step, the world around them seemed to grow even more impossibly quiet. The haze was so dense, Kaylin felt as though he had cotton stuffed into his ears. What seemed like days later, they finally emerged onto open ground. The plain stretched out ahead of them, wide and empty, at least as far as they could see. Kaylin exhaled slowly, only then realizing he had been holding his breath.

Joss glanced around, scanning the few hundred yards of visible terrain around him. Seeing no one nearby, he spoke up.

“They must be pulling back,” he said. “Consolidating near the Temple steps.” Fess looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes but stayed quiet. He was young, just turned eighteen, but sharp and steady when it counted. Joss and Willan had grown a friendship with him quickly, showing him the ropes not long after he joined the squad a short three months ago. They’d taught him how to move, how to listen, and how to survive. He learned fast.

They moved steadily onward through the valley, stepping over bodies of both humans and Sylphar. The armies had clashed here yesterday, and the aftermath was sobering. Kaylin both hated and considered himself fortunate that the army chose his squad to be held in reserve for today’s war efforts. They’d been in the thick of things before, but yesterday’s battle had been especially bad. They’d lost thousands.

With each step, the Temple on the mountain grew larger, its shape rising like the jagged teeth of some ancient beast. The grand stairway snaked upward, wide and imposing, carved from dark stone that caught the light in strange, shifting patterns.

Even from this distance, Kaylin could make out the details carved into the massive arch above the stairs. Symbols twisted in unrecognizable patterns, and spirals curled across the stone in ways that made his eyes want to look away.

The banners above the gate still hung, but just barely. Torn and faded, they clung to their poles with each gust of wind. Within a suspiciously uneventful hour, they had almost reached the steps to the Temple and halted in formation.

At the base of the steps, a line of Sylphar waited, six across, two deep, shields locked. Kaylin’s squad hesitated, lungs and throats burning.

“Where are all the others? I was expecting… a lot more to be guarding the stairs…” Willan asked.

“Look around,” replied Kaylin. “This damn smoke is so thick that there are likely a thousand different skirmishes happening right now. Nobody knows where anybody is. We’re likely the first ones here, and they,” he nodded towards the Sylphar, “are clearly waiting for more reinforcements that haven’t quite made it here yet.”

Kaylin’s knuckles went white on the haft of his battered spear. He sucked in a breath that tasted like burnt metal, met Joss’s eye on his left, and gave the sharp downward nod that meant: now. There was no time for words, but he hollered anyway, a raw-throated bark that rolled and bounced off the cliff walls: “Forward! Go! Go!” His men needed the noise almost as much as the order itself.

The world shrank around them into a funnel of motion and sound. The Sylphar at the choke point braced, blades out, armor flashing in the strange light of dawn, but Kaylin’s line was already surging. Shields crashed together with the first teeth-rattling thud, and then everything was shoving, bashing, stabbing, and screaming, a blur of violence that had no clear beginning or end.

For an instant, Kaylin got a clear look at the Sylphar opposite him. The opponent was a young male. As Kaylin surged forward, he had a distinct thought of the injustice this world had placed on everyone. Both Sylphar and humanity had suffered so much loss over generations of war that each side was sending its youth to fight. His heart broke as the young male rushed him, swinging low, but Kaylin bashed the blade aside with his shield, twisted, and drove the spearpoint under the chin strap, through soft flesh, and into the brain. The boy’s mouth formed a perfect O. He slumped, caught in the momentum of Kaylin’s shove, and toppled out of sight. Kaylin had no more room for despair, yet it carved a hollow space in his chest all the same.

All around him, the squad fought like maniacs. Willan, already bleeding from a shallow gash across his cheek, rammed his shield into a Sylphar’s gut and used the rebound to whip his sword around, catching another enemy on the temple. Blade met bone, and the Sylphar’s body spasmed, then crumpled. A third Sylphar, helmetless and screaming, leapt onto Willan’s back, but Fess was there before the attack could land, driving the head of his spear into the Sylphar’s ribs until it went still.

Kaylin’s left side nearly buckled as something hard crashed into it. The impact barely registered before the pain bloomed, white-hot and numbing. He spun and saw the edge of a Sylphar axe embedded in his shield just an inch from his forearm. He locked eyes with the attacker, a heavy-set female with intricate tattoos up her cheekbones, and with a grunt he ripped the shield back, yanking the Sylphar off balance. She stumbled, and Kaylin swept her legs out from under her. He stomped on her chest once, twice, heard ribs pop, and then drove his spear down through the gap in her armor. She died with a grunt and nothing else.

Somewhere behind him, Joss was yelling, “Push! Push, you bastards!” Joss fought with the standard pole, the banner wound tight around it, using it like a quarterstaff. He spun it through the air to knock aside weapons and then used the iron-banded butt to bash faces and hands. He caught a Sylphar on the shoulder, heard the crack of bone, then swept the pole between another’s legs, sending him howling. With a flourish, Joss buried the pole’s ornamental blade into the male’s neck. Blood fountained out, coating the standard and Joss’s own face. He laughed, a wild, manic sound even he didn’t recognize.

Kaylin did a quick mental count. They’d started the day with ten. Himself, Joss, Willan, Bram (already gone, but Kaylin still counted him), Fess, Gald, Rinn, Larch, Tovin, and Tarl. He looked around for the others, assessing at least two down on his own side. Gald was gone, his head caved in from a Sylphar mace. Tovin was shrieking, clutching at a spurting stump of forearm. Rinn was still on his feet but staggering, eyes glassy, blood soaking his pant leg. They would be wiped out here on the rocks, choking and dying for nothing if they didn’t finish this fast.

The Sylphar line was buckling. Their first line was already a tangle of bodies, and the second was falling back, shield wall shattered and formation lost. Kaylin felt the moment, that sudden, collective knowledge that the enemy was breaking, and he seized it. He waved his spear above his head, signaling the press, and his squad responded as one. Willan, bleeding heavily now, roared and barrelled forward, slamming his broken shield into the chest of another Sylphar and pinning him against the stone steps. Joss darted past, stabbing at whatever soft parts he could see, and Kaylin followed the opening, shouldering his way through the melee.

He heard the Sylphar voices panic wordlessly as they realized they were surrounded. One dropped his weapon and sprinted for the steps, only to be tripped by Fess and stabbed twice in the back. The last two Sylphar, back-to-back now, tried to make a stand. Kaylin recognized the leader by the intricate embroidery of his cloak, the gold threading dulled by soot and grime. The male spat at Kaylin, hissed something in a language he didn’t know, and lunged forward with his sword. Kaylin barely parried the first blow, felt the sting as the edge nicked his shoulder, but then Joss smashed into the leader from behind, dropping him to one knee. Kaylin finished him with a jab to the heart, twisting the blade for good measure.

The final Sylphar looked at the carnage, then at Kaylin. For a moment, the male seemed to weigh his options. Then, shame-faced and trembling, he turned and ran down the slope, arms pumping and breaths coming in terrified gulps. No one bothered to chase.

It was over. Kaylin staggered back, heart thudding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. He looked at the world around him, half-surprised to find himself still inside it.

Three of his own were down. Gald and Tarl were dead. Tovin lay writhing, with a stab wound in his gut and blood spurting from the stump of his arm. He wouldn’t be getting back up. Rinn was wounded but walking, Larch somewhere behind the rock outcropping tending his own wound. Of the dozen Sylphar, only one had lived to flee. The rest lay twisted on the ground, blood pooling into the cracks of the stone, mixing with the gray ash and the strange, violet-tinged ichor that seeped from Sylphar wounds.

Joss, breathing in wet gasps, leaned against the steps and grinned with bloody teeth. “Didn’t think we’d ever get to these stairs,” he croaked.

Willan slumped down next to Tovin, pushing his eyelids closed. “He’s gone,” he muttered. “Gods, my ribs hurt.”

Kaylin knelt by Tarl's body, shut the man’s eyes with gentle fingers, and then said a quiet word of thanks for the man and his service.

He stood and looked up at the temple steps. They were so close now, just fifty yards of slick, battered rock, and then the darkness of the enormous archway. From here, Kaylin could see the faint shimmer of light illuminating the top.

He wiped blood from his face and signaled the rest to gather. “Up the steps,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. “We keep together. Slow and quiet now.”

As they advanced, Joss couldn’t resist a final look back at the rout they’d caused. He spat in the dirt, wiped his mouth, and let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob.

“We sure showed them,” Joss said.

“Don’t get too cocky yet,” Willan remarked, holding his side. “Look at those steps.”

Kaylin agreed as he looked up at the seemingly endless stairway leading to the top. He’d led them this far, and he still couldn’t believe their luck in making it this close to the Temple. The steps were of a reasonable size, but up close Kaylin noticed there were just so many of them, much more than he ever thought possible. He could see the staircase snaking back and forth along the mountainside for what felt like an eternity.

“Let’s just finish this,” Kaylin said.

It was brutal. Each step felt harder than the last, yet they pressed on. One foot after the other. Kaylin couldn’t help recalling his early days in the army, with endless drills, the ache in his legs and chest, and the exhaustion that overwhelmed every other thought.

His men weren’t doing much better. Weeks of fighting in this gods-forsaken valley had worn them down to the bone. Sleep was a memory, food and water were scarce, and it showed on all their faces. Their pace had drastically slowed, their breathing loud in the quiet.

What seemed like days later, but was likely only mere hours, Kaylin stopped. They’d made it to the top.

He stayed bent forward momentarily, his palms resting on his thighs. He paid attention to the rhythm of the breath he was drawing in and out along with the constant thumping echoing from inside his chest.

“Well, would you look at that…” Joss remarked.

Kaylin stood up and looked around. Then he saw it. The light.

The Stillight.

It pulsed from within the temple, soft and red and golden, but mostly red light now spilling across the blackened stone like something sacred. It wasn’t bright, but it was steady. And it changed everything.

The surrounding survivors straightened. Some then dropped to their knees. Others just stared, eyes wide, armor glowing faintly in the light. It didn’t heal them, but it reminded them they were still alive.

A horn sounded from the valley behind and below them, but this one was different. A pattern he only dreamed about hearing. It wasn’t a warning, but a call. A declaration. They’d done it. The enemy was retreating for good this time.

Kaylin felt something inside him shift. Shocked, he felt the light burn away his doubt and fear. He wiped his face, tasted ash and sweat, and let it ground him.

He turned. Joss was there, standard still in hand, the cloth streaked with blood but still flying.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” Joss said.

“Not done yet,” Kaylin replied.

He took the standard from Joss, drove it into the earth at the foot of the temple, and watched it catch the light.

Then he raised his shield and called out, voice cutting through the smoke and ruin:

“Form up!”

Willan sounded three loud and clear blasts on his horn to inform the men in the valley that the Temple was now under human control.

From his perch, he watched as the smoke slowly dissipated from the valley and fellow soldiers started filtering towards the steps. From all the edges of the field, the last of the army gathered. Battered, bloodied, but standing.

In the Temple’s shadow, Kaylin’s squad stood in line, solid.

Behind them, the Stillight waited. Silent. Watching.

With the rest of the army making their slow way up towards the mountain behind him, clearing the Temple was up to Kaylin and his squad. He paused, eyes fixed on the structure ahead. There was something about it, something more than just ancient stone. It carried a weight, as if the past itself was pressing in, silent and unshakable.

Strange carvings covered the massive metal doors, their meanings long lost. Heroes, beasts, maybe even gods, all tangled together in scenes where it was hard to tell if they were fighting or praying. Kaylin pressed his shoulder against the left door. It groaned as it gave way, dragging a slow arc through the ash and grime at his feet.

The others followed quietly. Joss stumbled, catching himself on a chunk of fallen stone. Willan and Fess moved up behind him, shields cracked but still held high. The rest of his men looked like they might collapse at any second. No one said a word. Just the tapping of their boots on stone and the low, steady hum of the Stillight up ahead.

Inside, the outer sanctum stretched wide and deep, like the heart of a mountain carved out from the inside. It was a massive circular chamber, with walls that were lined with massive reliefs. The columns lay scattered, some cracked with age, others shattered by violence from ages past. Between the rubble, eerie torches burned in green and blue, their light sharp enough to sting Kaylin’s eyes.

“You three,” he said, pointing to Joss, Willan, and Fess, “with me. Rinn, Larch, go back outside and guard the entrance.”

He moved first. Not out of bravery, but habit. His body knew what to do, even through his mind-numbing exhaustion. Stepping around rocks, he scanned the marble columns ahead and saw a large doorway. He stepped around a strange, large bowl carved from marble that was filled with water, and then proceeded through the doors into the inner sanctum. He froze as his eyes adjusted to the chamber’s glow. Before him stood six thrones, each distinct in shape and design, arranged in a wide arc in front of a fractured, but massive altar. They shimmered softly, their surfaces shifting through hues like living crystal. Thrones? He had always thought those were just stories, mere myths whispered in village temple halls. And yet, there they were. Behind them, glowing behind the broken altar, the Stillight pulsed. The thing was huge, steady, radiant, and impossibly alive. It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t liquid. It was something in between, with two mystifying threads, one red and one gold, slowly winding around each other as if they were caught in a painful, deliberate dance. The light flickered, casting shadows that slithered across the statues, making them seem like they were breathing.

Kaylin sat there pondering the Stillight and why there was a sharp red glow emanating from it when an angry cry shattered the silence.

From behind a massive column on the right, a Sylphar came charging. It was taller than most, skin streaked with silver and blue, axe raised high. Kaylin shouted in alarm as he dodged the first swing. The axe hit the floor with a crack that echoed. He swept his spear low, hooked the Sylphar’s leg, and brought the butt up into the creature’s face. Bone crunched. The Sylphar staggered. Kaylin didn’t hesitate as he drove the spear up into its chest.

No time to breathe. He let go of the spear as the corpse hit the ground and drew his sword when he saw three more approaching from the opposite side, blades drawn and eyes cold. Joss met them, blocking one with his shield, but the other two got through, and one cut deep into his thigh as it ran past. Joss screamed, swinging wildly. Fess, panicked, tackled one, stabbing wildly with his small dagger into its side. They went down together. Willan, having rushed to Joss’s aid, finished the first with a clean thrust through the back, then turned to help Fess with the Sylphar he had brought down. Somehow, Fess was underneath the Sylphar now.

Kaylin registered all of this right before he brought his sword up just in time to catch the last Sylphar’s strike. Their faces were close. Too close. He could see the tension in the Sylphar’s jaw, the flicker of something like hatred in its eyes. Kaylin’s arm trembled, but he pushed back, forcing the blade down, slowly, until it pressed against the side of the Sylphar’s neck. With one sharp twist of his wrists, it was done. The Sylphar’s eyes widened for a moment, then softened, as if accepting it was over. Kaylin let the body drop.

Silence returned, heavier than before.

Joss was down, bleeding but alive. Willan knelt beside Fess, who stared wide-eyed at the gaping wound in his stomach, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Kaylin wiped his blade on the dead Sylphar’s cloak and looked up.

The Stillight hovered behind the massive cracked altar, a double helix of impossible color that reflected in a large pool of water underneath. Every pulse sent a ripple through the air and water, almost as if it were breathing. The beautiful and terrible light shone in an otherworldly cadence with each pulse. Red for fury. Gold for grace. They didn’t mix, just circled each other, always in tension. And in that moment, Kaylin saw it clearly. Not a battle between good and evil, but a quiet, endless tug-of-war between forces that simply were.

He was being drawn in, stepping over the bodies without really seeing them, eyes locked on the twisting light. It stung his skin sharply, especially where his hands were torn up. Was that real? Or just in his mind? He stepped in between the thrones, and past the altar, reaching his hands out, seemingly of their own accord.

His palms met the light.

The world fell away.

He saw them all. Ordinary men and women who had stood where he now stood. A farmer with rough hands and tired eyes who had come seeking rain for his dying crops. A young soldier, barely old enough to shave, who had begged for forgiveness for the lives he had taken. A traitor who had sold secrets for coin and then come back hoping for forgiveness. A saint whose name was forgotten, who had knelt in quiet devotion. Sylphar too. Blue and violet-skinned warriors who had once fought for the same light he now touched. None of them had left unchanged. Each one carried the same look when the Stillight released them. Older. Hollowed.

The warmth that filled him was not comforting. It was heavy. It carried the weight of every choice he had made. Every life he had saved. Every life lost because of him. Every moment he had hesitated. Every moment he had not. He saw the shadows twist and writhe around those faces. Dark tendrils that reached for him. Then the shadows parted. A larger silhouette rose in their place. Taller. Broader. Brighter. The shadows left, and the vision ended.

Behind him, Joss was sobbing. Willan leaned against one throne, holding to his chest the lifeless body of Fess.

The Stillight shifted. The red faded. Gold took its place, steady and slow.

Releasing a heavy breath, and watching the silhouette fade away, Kaylin let go of the stone and turned. Joss looked up at him, face pale, lips cracked.

“We did it, Kayl,” he whispered.

Kaylin nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He slowly looked around at the bodies of the Sylphar, at Fess, the light above them casting everything in a glow that felt too gentle for what had just happened. He took it all in.

They had the Temple.

For now.

But Kaylin knew better than to call it a victory.

He’d seen too many mornings like this.

Too many times the world reset itself, demanding more blood. Tilted the balance. Still, maybe this time would be different. They had the Temple now. Maybe peace could last this time. Now I’m just lying to myself, he thought.

He closed his eyes and remembered a prayer his mother used to say, back when he could claim some semblance of innocence.

The Stillight pulsed behind him, golden and quiet.

And Kaylin, captain of what remained, stood tall beneath it. Not as a hero, but as a man who had seen too much and still hoped for something better.

How long would it be before the Sylphar took the temple back?

He didn’t know.

He just hoped he wouldn’t live long enough to find out.