Chapter 67
Chapter
Sixty-Seven
The scent of ash clung to the air, woven with the tang of ozone and iron.
Smoke curled along the mountain ridgelines, blotting out what little remained of the twin moons' crimson glow. Thaelyn stood near the broken edge of the eastern wall, her bow still gripped in her fingers, the string trembling slightly from the last shot she'd loosed. Blood painted her arm from a shallow wound she hadn’t felt until now, and still, she didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Vornokh's roar ripped the heavens open, a sound not of war, but of anguish.
"They come again," Sorren said quietly beside her, his eyes reflecting the black storm churning beyond the cliffs.
The fourth wave rose like a tide from the shadows.
Wraith-forged beasts with wings too broad and bodies too broken to belong to anything sacred.
Their skin sloughed off in molten patches, their eyes burned with hollow red fire.
Shadow-walkers poured from the rift lines behind them, armored in obsidian, blades weeping dark magic as they charged the last intact watchtower.
Thorne stood at the front, silent and still. The wind pulled at his dark cloak, his blades crossed behind him in twin sheaths, his pupils flickering with red light. He was the storm's eye.
Commander Dareth landed behind them atop Razorth, his armor dented, blood spattered across his jaw. "Hold the ridge," he commanded, though his voice cracked with exhaustion. "Do not let them breach the northern path. If they reach the inner sanctum, it’s over."
"We know what’s at stake," Garric said, stepping up beside Thorne. His arm was slashed open, hastily bandaged. Behind him, Brynnek and Feyra stood with fire and earth magic coiling at their hands, battle-worn but unbroken.
The sky darkened further, unnaturally, heavily weighted with pressure. A low pulse echoed in Thaelyn’s chest.
Nyxariel. “I feel it too, little flame. The tear widens. Aether thins. They mean to end it now.”
Thaelyn looked to Thorne, but he was already moving.
"Take the right flank," he barked, and his voice was the strike of a blade against stone. "Sorren, on me. Garric, cover the rear. Thaelyn, "
She met his eyes. "Don’t hold back."
A nod. But it was everything. They launched into the fray.
Dragons roared overhead, Nyxariel and Vornokh moving in tandem, their flames scorching a path through the nightmare. But the enemy adapted. Twisted mages raised shields of black ice and counter-fire, and below, the dead surged forward, unrelenting.
Blades met flesh. Magic clashed in showers of sparks and bursts of light. Screams tore through smoke-thick air. One by one, cadets fell, their bodies carried back by dragons or burned where they stood.
Thaelyn spun, loosing arrow after arrow, the sigils on her arms glowing with silver fire. Aether shimmered behind her eyes.
Then she saw it. A figure moving between the enemy ranks, untouched, cloaked in red and black. Kaen. Not leading. Commanding. Their eyes met for a breath. The skies cracked open. The Veil tore even more. The Rift screamed. The world was set alight.