Chapter Twelve -The Unforgiving Hour

Chapter Twelve -The Unforgiving Hour

BACK TO PRESENT

The skeletal beast lunged.

Its claws split the air like blades of shadow, aiming to cleave through both of them in a single swipe.

But Kiara moved first.

Her staff lit with blinding light. The runes flared across the ground beneath her like blooming flowers made of radiance.

“You want depth?” she whispered.
“Try falling into your own grave.”

And she charged—eyes locked on the beast’s burning soul.

The chamber was in ruins—half-swallowed by time and fury. Arched stonework lay shattered on the ground, fractured like the truth Kael had chased for so long. The air still buzzed with ancient magic, hot and angry, clinging to the edges of broken columns and charred sigils.

Kael stormed through the mangled entryway, boots cracking against rubble, his breath ragged and wild. His fists clenched at his sides, veins surging beneath his skin. Every heartbeat echoed in his ears like war drums.

"SHOW YOUR FACE!" he roared, the sound echoing like thunder off stone.

There, near the levitating Cipher pedestal—the core of it all—stood Korin. Calm. Collected. His cloak swayed like a shadow caught in a breeze that didn’t exist, a silhouette painted against the swirling void of magic behind him.

He turned slowly, expression unreadable beneath the pale gleam of the vortex light.

"I was starting to think you wouldn’t come," he said, voice low and eerily tranquil.
"But here you are… huffing and puffing like a loyal little hound."

Kael’s eyes flared.

"You killed the old man," he snarled. "You used everyone."

Korin tilted his head, almost pitying.

"I gave them purpose," he replied. "A better one than rotting in this kingdom’s shadow."

Kael lunged.

His fists were meteors, fists of fury forged in grief and betrayal. Each strike cracked the ground, shaking the very bones of the room. Sparks hissed where knuckles met stone. Korin barely dodged—flowing like smoke, narrowly escaping the storm.

"Still trying to solve everything with your fists," Korin mocked, sidestepping. "But this isn’t a brawl, Kael. This is evolution."

"Then let me evolve..." Kael growled.
"...through you."

One punch slipped through the defense.

It slammed into Korin’s chest with the force of a collapsing mountain, shattering the arcane barrier in a pulse of raw light. Korin flew back, skidding across the floor, his cloak torn and blood now painting his lip.

He wiped it with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting like twin blades.

"Enough."

He raised a single hand.

The air froze. Sound died. A cold wind swept through the chamber—unnatural and biting. Kael’s vision rippled. Colors smeared, swirling like oil across water. The world around him cracked… and fell away.

Stone vanished.

Time stuttered.

Veilbind.

Korin’s voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere.

"Welcome to the Dreamhold… where only I decide what’s real."

Kael staggered, knees trembling. The ground beneath him warped and shimmered like a reflection on storm water. The walls twisted into flickering images—memories, lies, echoes of fears he’d buried deep.

He felt himself sinking.

Each step dragged like his legs were made of iron. His heartbeat faltered. Whispering voices rose in the air—his own doubts speaking back to him. His failures. His mistakes. His shame.

He dropped to one knee, sweat trailing down his brow, vision swimming.

"This... this isn't real..." he gasped.

"It doesn’t have to be," came Korin’s disembodied reply. "It only has to hurt enough to make you stop."

Darkness curled around Kael’s mind like chains.

He was slipping. Sinking.

Until—

Pain.

A sharp, red spark.

Kael bit his own finger—hard. Blood spurted. The sting was real. Real enough. His head jerked up, the fog clearing just enough to let fire back in.

"No more running..." he snarled through gritted teeth.

Then he charged.

His fists glowed with kinetic pressure, heat surging in waves behind every strike. The first blow caught Korin off guard. The second shattered a piece of the illusion, fragmenting the dreamscape like broken glass.

Kael didn’t stop.

He pressed forward, burning with a fire not even the Dreamhold could smother. With every punch, more of the false world unraveled. Memory gave way to purpose. Grief became clarity. Rage became focus.

Korin stumbled, shielding his face, breath caught in surprise.

He’d underestimated him.

Kael was no longer just a boy chasing ghosts.

He was the flame breaking the spell.

Korin stumbled backward, his boots scraping across the stone floor of the chamber. His hood was down now—his face pale with shock and sweat, blood trailing from his nose, disbelief written in every line.

"How are you... still standing?!" he demanded, voice strained with fury and something far more dangerous—fear.

Kael’s fists were cracked, bloodied, his body barely upright. But in his eyes burned a light that refused to die. His breath came in sharp bursts as he stared Korin down through the settling dust.

"Because this isn’t your world," Kael growled. "It’s mine now."

He charged.

The final punch wasn’t just force—it was intent. It cut through the dreamlike veil of the illusion like a blade through paper. The air shattered. Sound snapped back like a rubber band. Reality slammed into Kael like a wall.

He fell to the ground with a harsh grunt, gasping, smoke curling around his form.

Then he saw it.

His left hand—where he’d bitten off a fingertip to anchor himself—was regrowing. Slowly, impossibly, he watched bone stretch, veins spool like red thread, muscle knot back into place, and skin seal like water over glass.

"What… what is happening to me?" he whispered, eyes wide in disbelief.

Korin stared from across the room, backing away now, limping, cloak frayed and smoldering. He looked at Kael like he was seeing something unnatural.

"You weren’t supposed to..." Korin murmured, almost to himself. "Something is wrong with this kid."

In one swift motion, Korin hurled a flash crystal to the floor.

Light erupted. Kael shielded his eyes, blinded.

By the time the flare faded, Korin was gone.

The Cipher pedestal was empty.

Kael sank to one knee, alone in the crumbled silence. Dust floated in the air like ashes. His shoulders trembled—one with pain, the other with something more primal.

"This isn’t just strength…" he whispered, breathless. "It’s something else..."

He looked up at the empty pedestal, jaw clenched.

"...but he still runs like a coward."

__________________________________________________________________________________

The courtyard was war.

Thunder cracked across the sky—unnatural, fractured sound as if the heavens themselves had been torn open. The air stank of blood and ozone. Fires burned across the grounds, their light staining the stone red and orange. Debris from the academy’s shattered towers lay in splintered heaps. Screams echoed through the chaos.

Kael staggered out from the hall, barely able to stand, body aching, breath sharp. His eyes widened at the battlefield.

"It’s like hell opened its doors…" he muttered.

To his left, a student was dragged down by a skeletal beast with glowing ribs. To the right, a tower collapsed, crushed under the weight of a mutated brute.

But in the storm stood Kiara.

A beacon.

Her feet were planted, her staff ablaze with radiant threads of light, the crystal at its top spinning like a miniature sun. With a cry, she sent a focused beam straight through a charging bone beast, reducing it to ash.

"Fall back!" she shouted. "Group up—form a circle!"

Students scrambled toward her voice. Three mages, a swordsman, and a healer converged, taking up defensive positions around her. Kiara twirled her staff in a wide arc, releasing a spiral of blinding light that forced nearby undead to recoil.

The formation held.

But just barely.

And at the courtyard's center—where the earth itself had split—stood Glenn, locked in brutal combat with Ronan.

Each strike from Glenn’s staff sent pulses through the ground, the weapon singing with sonic force. His motions were precise, filled with fury restrained by control. Vibrations rippled with every blow, disrupting the bone-clad warriors that tried to overwhelm him.

Ronan stood unfazed. Cloaked in bone armor, masked and monstrous, he moved like death incarnate. His fingers danced with necrotic sigils, summoning waves of skeletal monstrosities from the cracked earth.

He laughed—a deep, jagged sound.

"You think you can stop me with your toys?" he sneered.

Glenn didn’t flinch.

He gritted his teeth, voice tight with rage and rhythm.

"This toy’s about to break your jaw."

With a roar, he spun low, planting the staff into the stone.

A massive sonic boom erupted outward. Skeletons shattered like glass. Cracks spiderwebbed across the courtyard floor. Dust and bone rained into the air.

Ronan stepped through the wave with eerie grace, unfazed. The air seemed to bend around him.

Still grinning.

Still coming.

Suddenly, Kael slid in beside Glenn, boots skidding against the blood-slick stone.

His breath was ragged, fists already clenched, eyes locked like twin flames on the monster before them.

"Got room for one more?" he asked, never taking his gaze off Ronan.

Glenn didn’t miss a beat. He gave a half-smirk, the kind that always danced on the edge of danger.

"Always. Just don’t get in the way of my echo."

And with that, Kael moved.

He launched forward, a blur of motion and muscle, meeting Ronan head-on. Their collision echoed like a thunderclap. Kael’s punches came fast—raw, kinetic, each one sparking off Ronan’s dark barriers with a flash of necrotic light. His fists cracked air, collided with bone, but every blow met resistance. Ronan matched him, step for brutal step, hurling backwaves of death-laced energy with every deflection.

Then—Ronan caught him.

A hand like stone and shadow snapped around Kael’s throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground.

"You’re persistent," Ronan growled, his voice like gravel dragged over steel, "but you’ll die like the rest."

Kael choked, feet kicking midair. But then—he used it.

He drove a boot into Ronan’s chest and launched himself backward, flipping through the air with a twist, landing beside Glenn in a crouch.

Blood trickled from his lip as he stood.

"He’s fast," he muttered, spitting to the side. "But not from behind."

Their eyes met.

Something unspoken passed between them.

A strategy. A memory. A click.

Glenn grinned, raising his staff.

"Should we do it now?"

Kael nodded once.

"I am ready."

He charged again—this time not for the kill, but for the dance. His blows were wild yet precise, pulling Ronan’s attention like a lure, each strike aimed to distract, to frustrate, to hold.

Ronan hissed, claws flashing. Kael ducked one swipe, parried another with a forearm, spinning low.

"NOW, GLENN!"

The air cracked.

Glenn materialized behind Ronan, a blur born of smoke and echo. His staff pulsed with raw energy, its metal veins humming like a heartbeat about to rupture.

With a final breath—

CRUNCH.

He drove the staff straight through Ronan’s back.

The sonic pulse exploded outward. Everything—sound, light, motion—stopped for one terrifying, sacred heartbeat.

Then—

The world returned.

Ronan fell forward, his armor shattering like brittle bone. His body hit the stone with a final, echoing thud.

Across the battlefield, the summoned horrors screamed in agony, their forms twitching, disintegrating into clouds of ash that scattered into the sky like burnt paper.

Silence followed.

But it wasn’t peace.

Kael dropped to one knee, breathing hard. Glenn stood behind him, staff still glowing, hands trembling from the force of the strike.

Smoke drifted between them. Blood dotted the ground. Bodies lay still—some theirs, some not.

But Ronan was gone.

And for the first time in what felt like forever…

The academy held.

__________________________________________________________________________________

The sky had gone still.

Ash drifted down like soft, gray snow—silent, constant—layering the scarred earth with the delicate remains of chaos. Fires crackled in the distance, low and tired, their fury spent. The towering doors of the academy, scorched and battered, still stood—blackened guardians of a place that had almost fallen.

Near the rubble, Ronan’s body was already fading, curling into trails of black mist that rose and vanished with the breeze. His summoned horrors were gone. Where once the world screamed, now only silence hummed.

From hidden halls and shattered alcoves, the students emerged.

Some limped. Some carried others. Some simply stood there—wide-eyed, bloodied, stunned. They stepped carefully around broken stone and burned sigils, over scorched blades and smoldering flags. But they walked… and that meant hope had survived.

Kiara stood among them, breath heavy, sweat tracing rivulets through the soot on her skin. She lowered her staff slowly. The glow faded, but not the fire in her eyes.

"They’re gone…" she whispered, disbelieving. "They’re really gone."

A young student stumbled beside her and fell to his knees, sobbing. Kiara knelt without a word, placing her hand gently over a gash in his side. Healing light shimmered from her palm, soft and warm. His crying slowed, then ceased.

Elsewhere, Kael and Glenn stood shoulder to shoulder, staring down at the dark smear where Ronan had once stood tall and cruel. Kael wiped sweat and blood from his brow. Glenn leaned heavily on his cracked staff, its tip embedded in a fracture of stone.

"If I ever hear bones crack again," Glenn muttered, "it’s too soon."

Kael gave a dry chuckle. "I’ll take bones over dream traps any day."

Their laughter didn’t last long. But it didn’t need to. It carried enough—relief, grief, endurance.

Across the courtyard, Master Edwin grunted as he helped lift a fallen beam off a guardian’s crushed leg. His robes were torn, his face bruised, but his voice still cut through the smoke like iron.

"Patch the west wing!" he barked. "Get the younger ones to the infirmary. Anyone with healing talent, you're with me!"

Older students rushed to obey. They moved like ghosts through the battlefield—lifting the injured, crafting makeshift stretchers from broken flagpoles and scraps of cloth. One placed a blanket over a still form and whispered a prayer. Another knelt in front of what had once been a garden, now reduced to blackened soil and embered roots.

On the academy’s highest stair, Headmistress Elara stood watching.

Arms crossed, cloak still flickering with warding runes, she gazed out over her bruised sanctuary. Behind her, the symbol of the academy—half-burned, cracked—still glowed, faint but unbroken.

"They protected it," she murmured to herself, "even if it nearly cost them all."

A young boy limped past her—his skin faintly flickering with elemental sparks. He looked up at her with wide, reverent eyes. She nodded to him gently, and her rigid stance softened, just a little.

Kael moved among the wounded now, quieter, calmer. He knelt beside a girl trying to bandage her brother’s arm and offered his help. Their hands worked in tandem, silent and steady.

"We’ll rebuild," Kael said, not a question, but a vow. "Stronger than before."

The girl nodded, her cheeks wet with tears, but her lips curved in a quiet smile.

Near the fountain ruins, Kiara rejoined Glenn. Her hand still pulsed with low healing light as she took in the scene—the students, the blood, the sky painted by smoke.

"It wasn’t just magic that saved us," she said softly. "It was all of us. Together."

Glenn nodded, his voice low. "But this was just the start."

They turned their gaze to the shattered main gate—where Korin had escaped.

His name wasn't spoken. It didn’t need to be.

The memory of him, holding the Cipher, disappearing into the void—it burned in their minds like a second sun. A promise. A threat.

Kael clenched his fist.

"We stopped Ronan," he said. "But Korin’s still out there. And he has the Cipher."

Silence settled again—not empty, but full of something stronger than fear.

Resolve.

The academy was cracked. Bruised. Burned.

But its people stood tall, unshaken.

And the next war had already begun.

The marble courtyard stretched wide, framed by blackened skies and smoke trailing faintly from the ruined academy in the distance. Crowds gathered—students, guardians, and civilians alike—forming a solemn sea beneath the looming KING'S PLATFORM, draped in rich crimson and royal gold. The air hung thick with tension, heavy with the echoes of what had been lost.

Trumpets blared.

Silence followed.

At the platform’s edge, KING ALDRIC stepped forward, resplendent in ceremonial armor that caught the light of the mourning sun. Steel and gold shimmered with authority. Beside him stood GENERAL ORLAN—a tower of a man, broad and battle-scarred, clad in dark command leathers. His eyes scanned the crowd with a predator’s calm, a strike-force insignia gleaming on his shoulder.

From within the crowd, KAEL stood beside KIARA and GLENN, tucked among their fellow academy survivors. Kael’s arm was wrapped in thick linen, blood dried beneath the gauze. Glenn leaned heavily on a makeshift cane, its shaft bound in silvered vines. Kiara held her staff close—gripping it not for magic, but for memory.

“‘Reckoning,’” Glenn muttered under his breath, gaze locked on the King. “You know it’s serious when he skips the ‘brave sons and daughters’ speech.”

“You got blown across a courtyard, Glenn,” Kiara replied, dry. “Show some respect.”

Kael didn’t turn. “Shh. Just listen.”

King Aldric’s voice rose, clear and commanding—no falter, no apology.

“Loyal citizens of this kingdom… today we gather not in celebration, but in reckoning.”

The crowd held still—drawn tight by the weight of his words.

“The Arcane Academy was infiltrated. Guardians were slain. An ancient relic—the Cipher—was taken.”

Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd, as if a stone had struck the surface of a still lake. Whispers followed, frantic and sharp.

“He’s saying it out loud?” Kiara whispered, eyes narrowing. “That confirms it… they really did take the Cipher.”

“Which means,” Glenn added grimly, “they’ll use it. And we still don’t know what it really does.”

Kael’s jaw clenched. “We will.”

The King stepped aside.

General Orlan took his place.

His voice, when it came, was rough stone on steel.

“This was no common assault,” he said. “It was a coordinated strike. Tactical. Precise. It exposed weaknesses in our guard… and hesitation in our ranks.”

Glenn tilted his head slightly. “He’s talking about us.”

“He’s talking about all of us,” Kiara replied, eyes fixed on the general.

Orlan’s gaze raked the crowd like a blade through wheat.

“That ends now.”

He stepped back.

And the King raised a single hand.

“Today, I sanction the deployment of six Strike Teams—elite squads drawn from the finest among us.”

The crowd erupted—cheers rising like wildfire across the courtyard. Applause thundered off the marble, echoing beneath the still-burning sky. And yet, beneath the noise, fear lingered—etched into the lines on weary faces, lurking behind the hopeful eyes of survivors.

Kael scanned the crowd, absorbing the mix of awe and anxiety.

“Some of them don’t even realize what they’ll be walking into,” Kiara said quietly, her voice lost in the wind but sharp to his ear.

Kael nodded once. “And some can’t wait to.”

On the platform, KING ALDRIC raised a gauntleted hand. The crowd stilled.

“Each team will be tasked with uncovering the truth behind this act of war—who orchestrated it, what their endgame is, and whether more darkness waits beyond the horizon.”

GENERAL ORLAN stepped forward again. This time, his gaze bore straight into the section where the academy students stood—his eyes like twin warhammers, unblinking.

“I’ve seen rookies show more valor than seasoned soldiers,” he said. “Some of you fought like monsters caged too long.”

Glenn grinned sideways. “He definitely means you.”

Kael gave a half-smile. “Then he didn’t see you throw that shield like a discus.”

Kiara didn’t flinch. “Focus. This is still a battlefield. Just… quieter.”

GENERAL ORLAN continued, voice unwavering:

“I will oversee recruitment personally. I will name six leaders. The rest… will be their choice. Only the strongest, the most adaptable, the fiercest—will be selected.”

A pause. A breath held by the whole courtyard.

Then—cheers again, tentative at first, then surging like a wave. Hope and dread collided in applause. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled once, solemn.

Kael turned to his friends. The fire in his eyes was no longer raw—it was forged.

“We’ve already been in this war,” he said. “This just makes it official.”

Kiara gave a tight nod. “Yeah. But now they’ll actually train us for it.”

Glenn rolled his shoulder with a wince. “’Bout time they put our chaos to good use.”

Their eyes returned to the stage.

KING ALDRIC raised his voice one final time:

“Tomorrow, the names of the Strike Squads will be revealed. The burden of vengeance… and prevention… now falls to you.”

He stepped back. The crimson banners behind him stirred in the rising wind.

The crowd surged with renewed energy—some shouting triumphantly, others standing frozen, unsure whether to be honored… or afraid.

Kael clenched his bandaged fist.

The Cipher was gone. Korin was out there.

But now… so were they.

And the war?

The war had just gotten louder.

The morning sun filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Academy Hall, painting the marble floor in a kaleidoscope of shifting colors. A restless crowd of students had gathered around the central notice board, their murmurs growing louder with each passing second. The parchment pinned at the center shimmered faintly, as if enchanted to catch the light just so. At the top, six names glowed with gold-inked precision.

*STRIKE SQUAD – ASSIGNED LEADERS:*

1. Kael

2. Sahir

3. Rega

4. Ben

5. Yugi

6. Sophie

Kael pushed his way through the crowd, flanked by Glenn and Kiara. All three of them stilled as their eyes found the list.

Glenn was the first to react. He clapped Kael hard on the back, a grin splitting across his face. “You’re on the list, Kael! First name, too. That’s insane.”

Kael offered only a small nod, his expression unreadable—calm, steady, as though he’d already known this would happen.

Behind them, Kiara stood silent for a beat too long. Her arms slowly folded over her chest, her weight shifting ever so slightly. “Of course...” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “They picked Kael. But not me?”

The edge in her tone was impossible to miss.

Kael turned his head slightly, his gaze flicking to hers. “Would’ve been more surprising if they didn’t,” he said evenly. There was no pride in the words, just quiet certainty. “But they’re not done choosing.”

“Still...” Glenn added, trying to lighten the mood, “you made it, man. You earned this.”

Kiara’s lips curled into something resembling a smile, though bitterness tainted its edges. “Yeah. He earned it...” she said, almost to herself. Then under her breath, “Guess light’s just not loud enough for them.”

Before either boy could respond, a distant bell tolled through the Academy halls—clear, commanding. Moments later, a breathless runner boy emerged from the far corridor, an official envelope clutched tightly in his hand.

“To Kael Valtheron,” the boy announced, stepping forward. “You’re to report to the Strike Squad Office. Immediately.”

Kael took the envelope, broke the seal with a practiced motion, and skimmed its contents. He didn’t speak. His eyes merely narrowed in concentration, and then, without a word, he turned on his heel and started walking.

Glenn and Kiara exchanged a glance. Whatever had just begun, it was pulling them into something bigger than a list of names. Without hesitation, they followed.

The room was circular, fortified with layered steel plating and glowing wards etched into the stone. Crimson tapestries depicting old battles hung behind racks of weapons and tomes. In the center, a heavy round table stretched wide, covered in a sprawl of maps marked with red pins, inked trails, and regions crossed in charcoal.

General Orlan stood beside it, arms crossed tightly against his chest. His weathered face was carved with discipline, his gaze fixed on the figure who had just entered the war chamber.

“Kael Valtheron,” he said, voice firm and echoing against the chamber walls. “You are squad leader of Gamma.”

Kael stopped just past the threshold, posture firm as stone, and nodded once in acknowledgment.

“You may choose seven additional members,” Orlan continued, tone sharp with meaning. “Pick wisely—your life might depend on them.”

Without a pause, Kael turned his head slightly over his shoulder, scanning the doorway where two familiar figures lingered in the hall.

“Glenn. Kiara. With me,” he said evenly. “No one else I trust more with my back.”

Glenn blinked, taken aback. “You sure about that?” he asked, half-grinning as he stepped forward. “I’m more mind games than fists.”

“Exactly what I need,” Kael replied, without looking at him.

Beside him, Kiara’s posture shifted. She had held herself stiffly on the threshold, half-convinced her name would never be called. But now her stance relaxed, just slightly. She raised her chin and smirked faintly.

“Thought they overlooked me,” she said quietly.

"I didn’t,” Kael answered, voice low.

General Orlan watched the exchange with a flicker of approval in his sharp eyes. “Good,” he said. “Confidence without arrogance—rare.”

He turned toward the table and gestured to the map with a broad sweep of his arm. “All six strike squads will deploy soon. Each to separate zones. The situations are volatile. Time is short.”

The three moved closer to the table as the general’s finger tapped two areas circled in darker ink.

“There are two primary locations of interest for your team,” he explained. “First: The Whispering Mire. A haunted swamp—rogue mages, disappearing scouts, strange echoes in the night. Something stirs there.”

He shifted his hand to a jagged outline drawn to the north.

“Second: Storm Ridge. We’ve detected remnants of the same dark energy used in the Academy attack. Faint, but unmistakable. That alone puts it under immediate scrutiny.”

He took a step back from the table, letting the weight of the information settle.

“You’ll begin with the Mire,” Orlan continued. “The trail’s warmer. Use stealth. Scan for movement. If anything—anything—you find ties to the Cipher or the traitor…”

His gaze swept across them like a cold blade.

“…you do not engage alone.”

Kael’s jaw tightened as he slowly curled his knuckles, fire building quietly beneath his calm.

Kiara adjusted the grip on her staff, the crystal embedded in its head faintly pulsing with light. Glenn simply inhaled, slow and deliberate, his mind already spinning through strategies.

General Orlan gave a final nod. “Dismissed. Prepare to move at dawn.”

As the briefing ended, Kael, Glenn, and Kiara turned silently toward the exit. Their boots echoed softly against the stone floor, their voices lowered in quiet conversation as they processed everything that lay ahead.

But before they could reach the threshold, General Orlan’s voice cut through the stillness.

“Kael. One moment.”

They stopped. Kael turned back, expression unreadable. Glenn and Kiara lingered just a step behind, watching curiously.

Orlan stepped forward, his stance firm as ever, but there was a trace of something else in his voice now—personal weight.

“Before you depart,” he said, “there’s one more addition to your team.”

Kael’s brow lifted slightly.

“She’s someone I personally believe will bring more than strength—she’ll bring balance,” the general continued. His gaze briefly flicked to Glenn, who raised an eyebrow. “My niece—Catherine Vexlar.”

He let the name settle for a moment.

“Yes, she’s of royal blood,” he acknowledged, “but more importantly, she’s a Psychoknight. Trained in astral resistance. Specializes in psychic barriers and advanced weaponry. Her instincts are sharp. Her control, even sharper.”

He paused, letting the unspoken truth hang in the air: this would be her first time in the field.

“I trust you’ll guide her well.”

Kael gave a quiet nod. “If she has your trust, that’s good enough for me.”

Orlan turned his head toward a smaller door tucked into the side of the war chamber. “Catherine.”

The door opened without creak or sound, and a young woman stepped forward with purpose in her stride. She wore a sleek suit of dark armor etched in fine silver, each plate molded for agility as well as defense. Her eyes shimmered faintly violet, a subtle glow that marked her psychic affinity. Though her demeanor was calm, she moved like someone who belonged on a battlefield.

She smiled gently as she approached. “So... I finally get to be more than a name on a scroll.”

As she came to stand before the others, she bowed slightly with elegant discipline. “It’s an honor. I’ve read your files. Your battles. I hope I can keep up.”

Kael studied her for a moment. There was no doubt in her posture, no falter in her gaze. He extended a hand.

“Just stay sharp and don’t hold back,” he said. “We’re glad to have you, Vexlar.”

She took his hand with a firm grip. “Oh, I wasn’t planning to,” she said, her tone suddenly light, teasing. “And you can call me Catherine.”

Then she turned, stepping up to General Orlan with the kind of grace that came not just from training, but deep familiarity. The air shifted—less formal now, more familial.

Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him and held tight.

“I’ll make you proud, Uncle.”

Orlan’s hand rested gently on her back. “Make yourself proud, Catherine.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was filled with understanding, purpose, and quiet resolve.

Four figures stood now where there had been three—Kael, Glenn, Kiara, and Catherine—each with a unique strength, each bearing the weight of a mission that would test every edge of who they were.

The storm was coming. And they were ready to face it together.