Wyverns

Jarathia | Jarathia Forest | Village Runeners

Smoke rolls through broken rafters and collapsed beams, the square seethes with burning shades and crawling wyverns. Tyreese stands at the front line with a band of volunteers in mismatched cuirasses and leather caps, each clutching a pouch of water stones tight.

“Our goal isn’t to kill.” He says, voice carrying over the monsters’ roar. “We’re here to evacuate! Clear the flames, open doors, get everyone out! We are not fighters and we shouldn’t try—understand?”

A volunteer swallows hard. “And… we run, right?”

“Yes. Clear their flames and if anything happens, run to the nearest outpost.” Tyreese says. “Let’s go!”

They fan out. Doors groan, hinges scream. Volunteers force their way through shattered frames while others lob fist-sized water stones to keep the monsters at bay. Blue veins ignite on the stones midair and they burst into dense, cooling mist that hisses over wyverns, making them back off.

“Run! We’re here to save you!” Tyreese shouts as faces appear in smoke-choked thresholds—mothers with bundled infants, elders leaning on scorched canes, older siblings carrying smaller ones. They spill out into the street, coughing, and sprint for the ridged path toward the city.

A wyvern slams down in front of Tyreese, ember maw widening as it screeches. He meets it head-on—and fire blazes over his forearm. Flesh sizzles. He grunts, but keeps moving, jamming a water stone into its mouth. Steam detonates outward—the wyvern collapses.

“Argh—go! Run!” He yells as he shakes out his burned arm, the evacuated who had been watching in fear now running off toward the path.

More stones fly. Each impact blooms into a wet fog, steam clouds enveloping the square, dampening the heat. Flaming shades start to flicker, torches fade to smoke. Ever more doors swing wide, more feet thudding past, until they reach the village’s opposite end.

“That everyone?” Tyreese calls.

An ash-streaked woman nods, eyes huge.

“Then run to safety!” he orders, taking off himself with the last ones evacuated.

Jarathia | Village Ratira

The guild hits the road like a silver tide—bows strung, blades gleaning, charms tied bright around wrists. A hundred wyverns prowl the fields beyond the palisade, shades coiling in their wake, homes ringed in hellfire.

“Cycle out as soon as you spot any red in your eyes, no matter how small!” Beatrix orders, striding to the fore, axe across her shoulder. “No playing heroes! We pair up, we rotate, we keep each other alive! And like that, we WILL clear this village!”

She plants her feet, wind tugging at her hair, then launches forward—one vault, followed by one spinning rise of her axe. “Aristo—megalomaniac!”

The blade hits like a comet. A wyvern explodes to core and cinder—shockwaves ripple through the rest of the pack, turning lesser shades into ash.

Heat licks back along the haft, blistering her knuckles. She bares her teeth at the pain.

“Careful—the flames can burn through wards!”

Archers go first—arrows tipped with water stones arcing through the sky, each impact bursting into a cold bloom that snuffs out fire. Frontliners crash ahead next, swords and spears driving through cores already weakened by steam.

“Swap!” Someone yells, pointing at another with red specks flashing in their iris. Their partner yanks them back, taking their place without breaking the line.

Doors fly open, civilians pour out, running for safety.

Beatrix carves another lane through the hordes, voice harsh and relentless. “Keep moving! Hit the cores—rotate! Left side, free those houses!”

The square begins to change—less fire, more steam—less and less footfalls racing toward safety, most houses empty now.

And still the guild pushes on, swapping in and out like a well-oiled machine, refusing to let even one of the wyverns escape.

Jarathia | Lorakti Forest | Village Lorakti

Mersa stands with the freed prisoners and a knot of old guards. Frost crawls across his skin, his breath fogged up.

“You know what to do.” He says.

They nod.

“For our people!” A guard answers.

Ten wyverns prowl the street, as well as two towering shades, flaring with heat. Mersa draws a fresh dagger.

“I’m immune,” he says, stepping forward, “I won’t let any of you become wyverns. If it’s too much—run, I’ll hold the line! Let’s give it our all!”

“FOR JARATHIA!” The guards roar.

Mersa blurs out—then the first shade’s head tumbles with a cut, a second one cracking it's core. Heat slams into him, but fizzles out against the cold enveloping his body.

“I’ll make it quick…” Mersa growls, and he does—each two-shot a core, ruthless and precise. Shades try to get him—he splits them apart. Wyverns dive at him—he cuts their hearts free, steam screeching from the wounds.

But the onslaught grows stronger. More wyverns pour out from the treeline—two more shades congeal from the haze.

Five guards are fighting—each one against one with a shade.

“Switch—quick!” Mersa barks when he spots red specks in a guard’s eyes.

They rotate out—stumbling, coughing—and for a breath he’s alone, his knives singing, frost burning white across the ground, a growing horde ahead.

Then boots thunder—

—and bandits flood the line—thirty, then fifty, blades raised high, faces raw with grief.

“For our Vice Leader!” a front-runner bellows—golden eyes glittering with tears, long blond hair flashing in the blaze’s light. “We’ll protect this country—our home!”

“FOR CHISA!” The bandits roar as one and crash ahead, into any shades and wyverns they can get their hands on.

Mersa’s eyes widen. “At the last second—unbelievable…” He cuts another core free, then pivots, belatedly recognizing the voice. “Wait— don’t tell me— MAXWELL?”

Jarathia | Jarathia City | Mersa’s Mansion | Late Night

The lamps are bright—the voices even brighter. The district is alive—faces from the Outskirts, soot-streaked bandits and scowling guards who keep glancing at one another and then away again.

Hanla, Nine and Sunthia are heading up the road.

On the mansion’s steps, Beatrix slumps. Beside her is Tyreese with bandaged arms and Mersa lies on his back in front of them, staring at the sky.

“I hope you enjoyed your rest.” Mersa rasps out.

Sunthia drops to her knees beside him. “Mission accomplished.” She teases.

From the crowd, the blond girl jogs up to Nine, grinning. “This time you didn’t need to save us!”

Nine snorts. “Seems you did well.”

Hanla smiles. “Good—you’re all still standing.”

“More than standing!” The girl chirps out, nodding toward the street—laughter, clinking cups and exhausted cheers echo over. “We didn’t expect the extra help!”

“Give me a minute with Mersa.” Nine requests.

She nods and drifts back into the celebrating crowd.

They cross the short distance to the steps.

“You were right, Mersa… They all get along somehow.” Hanla murmurs, watching the unexpected little pockets of happiness. “They’re enjoying this.”

“Sure.” Mersa answers, eyes closing. “They’re our people. One nation. Sure, they’ll be a little more difficult to lead after… everything. But it's a challenge we overcame once and so we’ll overcome it again.”

Beatrix exhales like a collapsing forge. “You’re insane, Nine. Every day—beating those beasts, facing their heat—it’s madness. I don’t want to imagine what a calamity is like…”

Her gaze flicks to Hanla’s bandaged torso with a grimace. “Be an adventurer, they said. It’ll be… fun, they said.”

Tyreese gestures toward a knot of bandits and guards sharing a wall but no words. “I hope they’ll be okay together.”

“Their leaders are dead.” Mersa says. “If anyone causes problems, I’ll handle it.” He turns his head. “Take my guest rooms. They’re huge. We’ll deal with the rest tonight.”

“Need any help?” Nine offers, almost on instinct.

“We can handle it.” Mersa says. “Don’t worry.”

Hanla throws an arm over Nine’s shoulders and leans close, voice low. “He means stop. They’re strong enough. It’ll be our turn soon anyway.”

“Got it.” Nine whispers back.

Hanla and Nine head inside the mansion.

Beatrix tries to stand and immediately winces back into a slump. “My muscles hurt so much.”

“Same here.” Mersa mutters.

Beatrix rubs her temples, half laughing, half mortified. “He killed them for the last two years—every day—and we need three full squads to last even one. That’s… kinda embarrassing.”

Mersa exhales through his nose. “I thought it was a joke too… but after I saw how they fought the giant Calamity? They’re just wired different.”

Tyreese lifts one bandaged arm. “In our defense, this outbreak is hellish—there were so many deaths. But still… he did manage it alone the whole time.”

Silence presses down on them. Mersa’s gaze drifts toward the sealed volcano.

“To be honest,” he says, “we need to investigate, after this is over. Find a solution. Maybe a treatment.”

“But first—survival.” Beatrix replies.

Mersa slowly rises up onto his feet. “Ouch.” His knees tremble—and then the stone beneath them trembles too.

An earthquake rolls through the district. Lanterns sway. Far-off masonry answers with a low, grinding moan. Voices spike—fear spreading like sparks over dry grass.

Mersa steadies himself and thrusts out a hand. “Up.”

Beatrix takes it and rises. Around them, the crowd begins to ripple with panic.

“It’ll be soon.” Mersa says, eyes on the volcano.

“Yes,” Beatrix answers, jaw set, “very soon.”

“We’ll back those two up.” Mersa’s voice is steely now.

Beatrix nods once, sharp. “You can count on it.”

The mansion hums with quiet breaths—merchants, miners, workers, scholars—all packed shoulder to shoulder, watching the two of them like a suspended note.

Then Jenna sprints up to them. “You two. Follow me.”

Up the grand staircase, down a corridor still webbed in strands of silver.

“Sorry about the dust,” she says, pushing her way into a wide room, “we’re still cleaning. But today went perfectly. We’ve evacuated everyone.”

Nine’s voice is low. “No casualties?”

Jenna shakes her head. “Plenty of wounds, but no deaths—and some unexpected help from the bandits.”

Hanla frowns. “Why?”

“They said… it was Chisa’s order.”

“Didn’t she kill some bandits? Why keep following her?” Hanla asks.

Jenna’s mouth pulls tight. “They were on the nobles’ side. Executed publicly for it.”

Nine’s eyes narrow. “How do you know?”

“Avort. He’s been with them non-stop.”

“So,” Nine says, “Chisa avenged Sunthia…”

Jenna nods once. Her gaze drops. “Her last orders were…”

She closes her eyes, steadying herself.

“First—no more fighting civilians. Not a single blade raised against townsfolk.”

A breath.

“Second—aid the evacuations. Escort the weak. Carry children. Don’t aim for kills.”

Another breath.

“Third—fight alongside the remaining guards, unless they attack first. We can’t afford to waste any lives.”

Her voice roughens.

“Fourth—follow Mersa’s command until the crisis ends. ‘If he falls, we all fall.’ That’s how she phrased it.”

She swallows.

“Fifth—share all intel and stored supplies with the public.’”

A final, thin smile.

“And last… Live, even if you’re ashamed to. Jarathia needs survivors. Try to be one, with everything you have."

Silence settles over the room. Dust motes drift through a ray of pale light.

Hanla exhales. “She really set the table for us…”

Nine nods. “What happened there while we were fighting the Calamity?”

A bandit with golden eyes and long blond hair steps in from the doorway. “Name’s Maxwell,” he says. “And… yeah. Some surprising things. Turns out we had maniacs for leaders.”

He draws a slow breath, then tells it to them straight.