Entry #27

The rebel base hummed with life.

Louis Delacroix walked its dusty paths in silence, flanked by comrades who had once stood by his side through fire and death. The same people he’d fought for when they first set foot on the island. Now, they were all here again.

He paused, eyes scanning the camp.

“Everyone is here... but why?” he muttered.

Joaquin stepped beside him, voice quiet but firm.

“Because they still believe in what you stood for.”

“All of them?” Louis asked, still in disbelief.

Gabriel chuckled. “Took Ama-Lurra a lot of speech practice to pull this off, but yeah—every last one of them.”

Before Louis could respond, a broad-shouldered man approached them.

“Lady Ama-Lurra is waiting for you,” he said.

Joaquin nodded and gestured for the others to move on. Louis stayed behind.

He turned to the man, eyes narrowing with recognition.

“You’re Fabron, aren’t you? From the blacksmiths of Atrium—the finest forge in the mainland.”

Fabron gave a nod as he resumed sharpening his sword.

“I am. And it’s good to see you alive, Louis.”

“Why did you come back? Why are you risking everything against her?”

Fabron looked up, eyes like tempered steel.

“Because we believe that our so-called curses are gifts. That we were given power for a reason. We fight not just for survival, but for a future where our children don't have to fear the dark.”

Louis swallowed.

“I ran. I abandoned all of you. I let you down.”

Fabron stood, wiped the blade clean, and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Even strong men break. That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you real.”

“Our numbers might not be enough,” he continued, “but it’s not always about the numbers. It’s about belief. Diligence. Purpose.”

Louis blinked away the rising heat in his chest.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Truly.”

“They’re waiting for you inside, Louis,” Fabron said. “We all are.”

Ama-Lurra stood beside a grand map as Louis entered the strategy hall. The room fell quiet for a heartbeat.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Ama-Lurra smiled warmly. “You arrived right on time.”

The others gathered around the war table—Ilazki, Aide, Olentzo, Odei, Vishap, Mira, Gabriel, Joaquin.

“Here’s the plan,” Ama-Lurra began. “Mother’s castle is built on Father’s Heart, the nexus where Imaginae Energy once bloomed. It’s now corrupted—a crucible for spawning Xeolstors.”

She gestured across the map.

“There are four main approaches. Each a battlefield.”

She pointed north.

“The Advance—snow-covered mountains with high-ground access.”

Ilazki nodded. “I’ll rally all fire-users there.”

“East is The Sweep—rolling grasslands, perfect for engaging the enemy directly.”

Odei and Vishap raised their hands.

“We’ll take that route.”

“West is The Passage—closest to the Heart, but crawling with horrors.”

Olentzo straightened. “Lamia guards that front. I’ll go.”

Ama-Lurra frowned. “I suggest Aide should lead that assault—”

“No,” Olentzo interrupted. “I have unfinished business with her.”

Louis’s eyes drifted to Olentzo’s leg—replaced by a jagged, shimmering construct of ice.

“Olentzo, I—”

Crack!

Olentzo’s fist collided with his face before the words could finish.

“We believed in you, you coward!” he growled.

Ama-Lurra stepped between them, her voice sharp.

“Enough! We don’t have time for grudges!”

Louis wiped the blood from his lip.

“I deserved that.”

“South leads to The River—connecting all other paths.”

Aide stepped forward. “I’ll take it.”

Ama-Lurra nodded in approval.

Louis approached Ilazki, sword in hand. The blade was worn, dulled by neglect and time.

“It’s... rusted.”

Ilazki took it, frowned, then turned to a nearby curtain and pulled it aside.

Behind it stood a set of weapons and armor that glowed with faint, celestial light.

“These were forged from dwarf star material,” Ilazki explained, voice quieter now. “Gwydia used it in her final battle. I salvaged what was left.”

Louis touched the armor’s surface, trembling.

“I don’t deserve this.”

The sword dropped to the ground.

Ilazki rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Ran, Father, Gwydia… They would want you to wear this. You’ve earned the right to fight for what we’ve lost.”

Louis lifted the blade again, steadier this time.

“Then let’s end this. Once and for all.”

The camp stirred with energy as forces took formation.

Odei slapped Louis on the back. “Me and Vishap will take the grasslands. You should follow Olentzo—he might get himself killed just to spite someone.”

“You seem oddly excited.”

“Biggest fight of my life. If I die, it’ll be glorious.”

Louis chuckled. “Good to have you back, Vishap.”

Vishap nodded. “Wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”

Gabriel grinned. “Looks like the band’s back together.”

“Indeed,” Aide added.

Gabriel turned to her. “Good luck out there. Don’t keep me waiting at the castle.”

She smiled faintly. “See you soon.”

Ilazki returned with Louis’s new weapon—a double-edged sword, glinting with Gwydia’s Imaginae Energy.

“It’s not as strong as Father’s,” he said. “But it will serve.”

Louis took it reverently.

“I won’t waste what they gave me.”

Ama-Lurra stepped closer.

“It’s good to have you back, Louis.”

“You know our chances of winning are zero, right?”

She smiled gently. “But at least we’ll fight.”

Louis looked at her, then down at the blade.

“If I die again, I want to die at your side.”

She flushed, smacked his arm playfully. “Don’t say stupid things. You’re not dying.”

“You two again?” Joaquin chimed in from the corner.

Louis was startled. “Since when were you here?!”

“Always. And yes, I heard everything.”

Louis groaned.

“Don’t worry,” Joaquin added with a thumbs-up. “I’ve got your back. I’m your healer, after all.”

“No,” Louis said, smiling. “You’re more than that. You’re my friend.”

Elsewhere in camp, Mira sat cross-legged, eyes scanning an old, weathered tome.

“Miss Gwydia… I won’t let you down.”

“Hey, Mira!” She looked up.

“G-Giuseppe?”

“Fabron’s stew’s ready,” he grinned. “Wanna eat together?”

She smiled softly. “I’d like that.”

Louis and Ama-Lurra stood at the edge of camp, watching the crowd stir like a heartbeat before war.

“Look at them,” she said. “All these people… still believe in you.”

Louis exhaled.

“Then I won’t waste this second chance.”

Atop her throne of obsidian and starlight, Tenebrae stood watching the horizon.

From every direction—north, south, east, west—the armies came.

“Lamia,” she said coolly.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“They gather again. Ready the armada. We’ll meet them the old way.”

“As you command,” Lamia replied, bowing before vanishing.

Tenebrae turned to her wineglass and held it to the light—no, to the sun, still trapped and dying.

“Let them come,” she whispered. “Let them see how the stars fade.”

Entry# 27 End