The war tent crackled with tension—not from voices, but from Kael.
Every breath he took hummed with caged lightning. Thunder coiled around his boots, threatening to burst with every step he took. Despite the calm in his tone, the air around him whispered of imminent storms.
Alaric stood at the center of the tent, surrounded by scattered maps and sigil-marked tokens. His fire core pulsed steadily, warming the air. But beside Kael, even Alaric's flame seemed… subdued.
Kael pointed to the eastern cliffs beyond the Ashfold River. "Voidbinders nest in the hollows of the basalt crags. If Maeryn's retreating there, she has the high ground and the shadows."
"And their spies," Lysera added, flicking her fingers and igniting a mote of soul-light. "They'll see us long before we see them."
"We don't need to see them," Alaric murmured. "We just need to draw them out."
He tapped a sigil carved into the edge of the table—a relic from the Arcane Crucible, left smoldering by his last trial. It shimmered with the mark of fire and stone. "If we strike from below, through the stone, and ignite the lower tunnels... we burn out their cover."
Kael blinked. "You're planning to detonate the hill."
"Collapse it," Alaric corrected. "They built their nest in a grave. I say we bury them in it."
Lysera gave him a sideways look. "You always have a poetic way of explaining arson."
Kael chuckled for the first time. "You might survive this war after all."
Meanwhile: Deep in the Crags
Maeryn lay in a circle of obsidian runes. The Voidbinders chanted around her, threading threads of stolen essence through her veins.
Her eyes flared open. Purple and black—aether corrupted by Titan ichor—burned across her skin in winding, vein-like lines. Her spear, Nullfang, pulsed at her side.
"It's not enough," she rasped.
One of the robed figures knelt. "You've already taken in the Titan's breath. You need time."
"No." She rose, her limbs taut with strain, like a bowstring pulled too far. "Time is Alaric's friend. Mine is fear. Let the cities scream. Let them remember the void."
The chamber darkened as the runes cracked beneath her feet. Even the air recoiled from her presence.
Later: Before the March
Alaric stood on the ridge, looking down at the host preparing for war.
The scouts had returned: Maeryn's position was confirmed. Her forces were consolidating near the obsidian hollows—and several minor lords had been seen bending the knee to the Voidbinders.
Lord Varen's name came up too often for comfort.
Lysera joined him, brushing her cloak aside. "You look like you're about to burn the world."
"Just the part Maeryn's in."
She smirked. "That's… almost reassuring."
He turned to her fully. "Lysera. If I fall—"
"You won't." Her tone was firm. "And if you do, I'll burn through a thousand worlds to bring you back. So don't make me."
His chest eased slightly. "Thanks."
She smiled. "And Alaric?"
"Yes?"
"Don't die. I like your face too much."
March of the Thunderline
At dawn, the army moved.
Kael marched at the front, lightning wreathing his spear. Alaric strode beside him, Ashbrand shimmering in both flame and time-aether. Behind them, Lysera led a formation of soul-bound wardens.
As they crossed the Ashfold River, storm clouds gathered overhead—not summoned by Kael, but by fate.
The war for the Crucible of the world had truly begun.