Beneath a steel-colored sky smeared with low clouds, the knights of Thalairis rode out from the castle gates like a tide breaking across the land.
Alistair led the charge at the head of the royal frontline—a cavalry of gleaming armor and banners streaming behind them. They thundered across the black-grass fields, hooves pounding like war drums. Their weapons—enchanted swords, lances, and glaives—sparked with barely-restrained destruction magic. These were the kingdom's first shield, the vanguard of blood and brilliance. Their very presence cracked the earth beneath them with divine resonance.
Alistair, riding high on a black destrier, turned to the knights nearest him with a smirk. His voice carried over the rush of wind. "Nothing like a royal suicide mission to start the week. I was getting bored as hell!"
One of the knights beside him grinned. "You call everything a suicide mission."
"That's because none of us have died yet," Alistair said with a wink. "Statistically, we're overdue."
Further behind, Arinelle traveled differently—no horses, no sound. Her squad emerged and vanished like flickers of shadow stitched to the landscape. Each of her knights moved in absolute silence, gliding across open fields and through dying trees as though their very existence offended light. Arinelle herself led them on foot, her wings twitching now and then to give her brief aerial bursts. Despite their silence, a strange joy hung in the air. Arinelle giggled now and then to herself, humming an off-key lullaby as her squad mirrored her rhythm like shadows caught in a dream.
Thrain's unit brought thunder.
Lumbering steel-clad carriages rolled across the broken land, each drawn by enormous battle-elephants plated in sacred armor, tusks etched with glowing scripture. His knights—towering men and women, their weapons almost as tall as the carriages themselves—rode atop them with stoic calm. Magic coiled around their bodies in slow, molten arcs. Earth itself seemed to part as they passed, unwilling to contest the weight of the gods they carried in their blood.
Vaerlin was not on horseback, nor hidden in shadow, nor armored in a carriage.
He ran.
With perfect posture, eyes forward, no signs of fatigue, Vaerlin jogged beside the others like the journey was a morning stroll. His cloak didn't even billow—almost like the wind itself respected his quiet presence.
"He's running again," one of the frontline knights whispered, glancing at him.
"Why does he do that?" another asked.
"Maybe it's training?"
"Nah, I heard he made a pact with a wind spirit and now the ground gives him energy when he moves."
"I don't think that's true."
"He doesn't blink either. I counted."
Arinelle phased beside them, upside down in midair, hanging like a spider. "Maybe he's cursed. Maybe if he ever stops running, he just explodes."
One of the knights gasped. "That would explain so much."
Thrain snorted from his carriage. "He's always been like that. Just… let him run."
"Creepy bastard," someone muttered with admiration.
After the laughs faded and the air grew heavier, Thrain raised his voice, serious now. "The queen and Jethro tasked us with locating the last wizard. She's believed to be hiding within the Hugne Ruins, what remains of the Forgotten Age's greatest city. Our mission is to reach her, convince her to return, or carry her back if we must. She may be our last chance to summon aid."
Vaerlin, still jogging, spoke flatly. "If the witches intercept us, do not engage unless ordered. They are far more coordinated than they appear. Their movements have always been a calculated plague upon Thalairis."
Arinelle's voice chimed in from behind. "No one knows why they only target this kingdom, though. Every attack, every spell of darkness—only ever here. Don't you think it's weird? Like… maybe they're connected to that."
She pointed upward.
All eyes briefly turned to the sky. The black sphere hung far above the world like a dying star. Silent. Watching. Animals had begun to act erratically in recent weeks. Birds crashing into windows. Wolves abandoning forests. The Sphere pulsed faintly, like it was waiting for something.
Vaerlin didn't answer. Neither did Thrain. The silence stretched.
Alistair broke it, his voice unusually serious. "Witches don't move without purpose. They're not rabid dogs. They're knives looking for a heartbeat." He glanced toward Arinelle. "I grew up in a noble house that hunted them for sport. We never understood what they wanted—but I can promise you this: they always want something."
The ground changed.
Rolling plains gave way to broken rock, the ruins of a forgotten civilization. Vines hung like veins across shattered towers that pierced the sky. Strange flora sprouted with glowing petals. The air hummed, as though memory itself clung to this place like dust.
Finally, they reached the site.
A crater, ancient and silent. At its center was a monolith—half sunken, slanted, jutting from the earth like a forgotten god's spine. It wasn't made of stone alone. Metal ran through it, laced with intricate lines that pulsed faintly—no glowing light, just potential. Its surface bore no language, no carvings. It was hardware, older than anything that should exist.
The knights formed a circle around it. Elephants stopped. Shadows knelt. Horses shifted nervously.
Vaerlin slowed, stopped. Still breathing normally.
He stepped forward, eyes on the monolith.
"We'll need to open it. Or find out how." His voice was calm. "Be ready. If the witches are watching, they will come here."
Arinelle blinked at the lines running through the stone. "Looks like something wants to wake up."
Thrain drew his warhammer, resting it against his shoulder. "Then let's be ready to put it back to sleep."
And around them, the ancient air stirred—as if hearing them.
The air around the stone had grown still—too still. As if even the breeze hesitated near the ancient monolith.
Everyone circled it now, staring down its angled surface, its alien lines of faintly gleaming etchings threading across like veins in a god's husk. One knight from the frontlines approached and gave it a firm knock with the hilt of his sword. Nothing. Another tapped it with the butt of a spear. Still nothing.
"Maybe it's sound-based," muttered a knight. "Maybe we need a frequency."
"Or a voice command?"
"Or a soul offering," one of the assassins whispered, darkly amused.
"No, no," another tank knight rumbled, "it's clearly got to be magic. Ancient door. Old machine. Hit it hard enough—it opens."
"I vote magic," someone else said. "Everything's magic."
Theories buzzed like flies. A few even tried subtle spells, glyph-activations, verbal codes. Alistair joked about singing to it in the key of regret. Arinelle poked it with a stick at one point and hissed like it offended her.
But the stone didn't budge. It pulsed slightly, like a heartbeat at rest.
Eventually, the heavy infantry—Thrain's tanks—grumbled and stomped forward. Their weapons were monstrous: colossal glaives rimmed with volcanic teeth, twin-hammers bound in chains of frozen time, crescent axes that crackled with void pressure.
One by one, they stepped into formation.
The first raised his hammer with a grunt, eyes glowing molten gold.
Then—Vaerlin moved.
His hands came up slowly, like mist. In one smooth blur, he was between the tanks and the stone, catching the hammer's descent with just two fingers.
A shockwave of power whipped through the field, rattling armor and bending grass outward in a perfect ring. The hammer wielder stumbled back, stunned—not just by the catch, but by the sheer ease of it.
"You don't know what this is," Vaerlin said, voice even. "And if you don't know what something is, you don't beat it to death."
One of the brute knights in the back snorted. "Can't beat to death what's not living, though."
A second laughed. "Right? It's a rock."
The third added, "Imagine a rock screaming."
Thunk!
Thrain had walked up behind them and bonked each of them in the head with the back of his gauntlet—firm but fatherly.
The trio snapped to attention instantly.
"Sorry, sir!"
"Won't happen again, sir!"
"You're very graceful when you hit, sir!"
Thrain rolled his eyes, muttering, "Bricks with legs, the lot of you."
As the big knights reset, Alistair and Arinelle wandered closer to the monolith. Their bond was palpable—siblings not by blood, but by battlefield banter and years of shared hell.
Alistair squinted at the front of the stone, brushing some soil away from a spiral of etched symbols. "You getting anything from this?"
Arinelle tilted her head, sticking out her tongue dramatically. "Yeah. It says touch me more."
"That was the worst impression of an ancient monolith I've ever heard."
"Thanks. I practice."
The two crouched closer, eyes scanning the strange lines.
"There's no script here," Alistair said. "No known language, anyway. Maybe it really does require some kind of blood offering? Or money?! Animal offering?"
"Or maybe," Arinelle said, tapping the side of her head, "it doesn't open from the top."
The realization clicked.
"If this city's crippled and buried," she continued, "maybe the actual entrance is below."
Alistair stood up, raising a brow. "So we dig."
"I dig." Arinelle grinned, fangs peeking. "You're just the sidekick."
"I'm the charming, better-dressed, more attractive sidekick."
"I eat sidekicks."
She turned to the group. "Everyone else—stay here. Ugly witches like to crash parties, and I hate sharing my kills."
Thrain looked between them. "Are you two sure?"
Both nodded in sync.
Then, Thrain stepped toward them. He held out a hand—not a gesture of command, but a silent invitation.
Without hesitation, Arinelle placed her hand over his. Alistair followed. Their hands stacked like a silent vow between friends who had seen too much, survived too long, and still trusted one another.
A small ritual—no magic, just old understanding. They tapped their fists to their chests, then their foreheads, then pointed down toward the earth. It was their way of saying: we descend together, but we rise only if the other follows.
A few knights in the back tried mimicking it.
They smacked each other's foreheads.
One tripped.
Another spun in a circle and fell over.
"Is this… a dance?"
"I think we're doing it wrong."
Back at the monolith, Arinelle inhaled sharply and flicked her fingers.
Her nails grew long, obsidian and curved like predator claws. Her pupils narrowed into vertical slits. Her teeth sharpened into a predator's grin, and her entire body darkened—shadows coiling around her like smoke under pressure.
Without a word, she launched forward, slashing at the earth beneath the stone. Soil and stone erupted, her arms a blur of primal fury as she dug down—shadows peeling away layers of ancient dust, clawing a passage that descended in sharp spirals beneath the surface.
Alistair grinned, cracked his neck, and dove in after her with no hesitation. "If I die in a tunnel next to a maniac bat-girl, tell everyone it was worth it!"
The others remained above.
Swords ready. Eyes sharp.
The stone pulsed again—just once.
The mission had begun.
Beneath the ground, Arinelle carved through the stone like a shadow incarnate. Her claws sliced with supernatural ease, the tunnels narrow but wide enough for a nimble warrior like Alistair to follow close behind. He moved with the grace of a duelist and the instincts of someone used to impossible terrain, keeping pace just behind her as shadows peeled back before her rage-born excavation. Arinelle's hands glinted with darkness, her sharpened nails leaving runes of claw-marks against the stone as she tunneled.
"Smells like…" Alistair sniffed, cringing. "Rotting mushrooms and old perfume. You sure you're not the one causing that?"
Arinelle turned her head just enough to grin through the shadows, fangs gleaming. "You wound me. That's the scent of adventure, Sir Noble."
"Smells more like the back end of a troll."
The air shifted as they delved deeper. Arinelle paused, her hands brushing the rock. "It's hollow beneath here… this is it."
She plunged her claws down. With a grunt, the earth gave out beneath them. Both fell—Arinelle twisting midair, Alistair drawing his limbs inward to track the descent.
They plummeted into a submerged ruin: a massive underground chamber illuminated by glowing white water, the glow pulsating like a sleeping heart. Advanced bridges arched through the mists, but most of them were overgrown with vines and moss, metal and stone fused into unrecognizable, ancient structures. Arcane conduits flickered along the walls, barely alive with residual power.
Their descent triggered dormant defenses. Bladed traps of unknown design whirred into motion midair, rotating blades spinning, spiked tendrils lashing out from mechanical sockets. One trap launched a spear of shimmering glass straight at Alistair. He twisted aside, using a burst of wind magic to boost off a nearby stone spire. Arinelle dove through the chaos, flipping with eerie grace between two closing jaws of metal teeth.
"You're dancing, Ally!" Arinelle shouted, flipping midair.
"Yeah?! You are too! Just don't get hit!"
"You underestimate me!"
They landed hard on a half-buried platform, the glowing water softly lapping at the broken edge. Sitting in the center of it all—upon a circular dias of faded silver—was a hunched figure draped in black sackcloth, unmoving. Runes were burned into the stone around her.
Arinelle approached with a raised brow, the shadows clinging to her shoulders falling away like shed silk. Alistair stepped forward with more caution, sword half-drawn.
"Are you Ellira Varn?" he asked.
The figure stirred.
She turned slowly, her face emerging from the sackcloth: deeply lined, eyes a soft brown that seemed too alive for her age, and brilliant white hair falling past her shoulders in light that defied the grime of the ruin. Her body—frail, wrinkled, naked, and bare beneath the cloak—trembled as she reached toward him.
"You came… you're here to save me?" she whispered, crawling forward and clinging to Alistair's chest.
Alistair stiffened, blinking rapidly, eyes darting anywhere but down. "Um—yes, yes, we're here to rescue you. You might want to…wear something?"
Arinelle, standing behind, burst into a wheezing laugh, hugging her sides. "HAHA! You're blushing at a naked old woman!"
"S-Shut up! It was out of nowhere."
"I'm gonna tell the Queen you blushed at a naked old lady."
Alistair shot her a glare as Ellira clung tighter. "We're here on orders of Queen Silas," he said with forced formality. "She needs your help. To summon."
Ellira's eyes welled up. "A miracle… I've been down here for months. The ruins collapsed during a battle. I was wounded—trapped. I didn't think I'd survive. It's been… so long. The air itches my skin now."
Arinelle narrowed her gaze. "This was too easy. I'm suspicious… but I like it."
Alistair nodded. "No witches. Yet."
Ellira clicked her teeth three times, absently scratching her cheek. "They're not far. They always find me."
Alistair, sensing urgency, reached behind him as a glowing white crest opened in the air, spiraling with divine symbols. He plunged his hand inside and pulled out his weapon—a three-sided sword, each blade edge gleaming with different hues: sapphire, crimson, and silver, humming with power. The hilt was forged like an ancient vine, and divine vengeance danced across it like white fire.
'Stolen power from the god of destruction..always come in handy..'
He wrapped one arm around Ellira and dropped to one knee. Wind surged around him.
Arinelle grinned and vaulted onto his back, locking her arms around his neck. "Woo woo! Giddy up, nobleman!"
"Don't touch the hair—"
Too late. With a thunderous pulse, the divine crest exploded upward, wind and fire spiraling around them as the three shot up like a comet, blasting through the stone and earth in a pillar of light.
Above ground, the world had shifted into chaos.
Screams and steel and sorcery clashed across the ruin site. Red sigils lit the battlefield like infernal stars—witches had arrived.
They weren't ordinary spellcasters. Their magic twisted the very air, dark spells churning like molten shadows. One conjured a serpentine limb of black flame that coiled around a knight and crushed him in one motion. Another levitated, spinning slowly, her arms dripping with red ichor as glyphs hovered around her like a crown.
Vaerlin stood unmoving amid the chaos, blades orbiting him like clock hands, cutting down any spell that neared.
Thrain was already charging with his tank knights, weapons blazing—massive hammers made of obsidian lightning, war-axes surrounded by gravity rings. His forces clashed with summoned beasts: skeletal wolves with mouths like coffins, and winged horrors of bone and smoke.
Arinelle landed first, flipping from Alistair's back as his divine burst slowed. He landed beside her, holding Ellira upright.
"T-They're here," Ellira stammered, clinging to his arm.
Alistair, face lit by firelight and divine glow, gave a half-smile. "Finally."
Arinelle cracked her knuckles, fangs glinting. "Let's kill something ugly."
Then they charged.