Snow fell over Valenfor like pale ash.

  From the tallest spire of the capital, Rhydan Altheryon stood with the wind tugging at his robes, the white fabric snapping in the stormlight. Below him, the streets burned. Screams rose between the bells of the churches, their tones fractured by the chaos.

  Through the curtain of snow, the Warlock Emperor watched the city come undone. What should have been a night of union had become a dirge for peace.

  Shapes moved in the dark.

  Not only the ghouls — the twisted, bck-veined corpses cwing through alleyways and dragging the living down with them — but things that should not have existed at all.

  The first swooped past him, its shadow vast against the snow. Bat-like wings stretched wider than a carriage’s length, fur matted and slick with bile. A long tail coiled behind it, ending in a stinger that glistened with bck venom. The creature’s head was a grotesque parody of life — a hawk’s profile fused with a bat’s jaws, its beak lined with concentric rows of fangs.

  Each breath leaked a hiss of poisonous vapor. They crashed down, devouring all in sight, too weak to resist them.

  Rhydan’s lip curled. “Definitely not a natural ghoul outbreak,” he muttered. “Those grotesque things… manufactured Demonkin. Man-made. Chimeric filth.”

  The next creature screamed overhead, shattering the silence.

  Rhydan exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders, his Vaylora shimmering through the snow like faint lightning beneath his skin. Then he took a breath — and released a thunderous shout that rippled across the capital.

  It wasn’t a word. It was a command.

  The air cracked. Every flying creature in the area turned toward him at once, a chorus of guttural shrieks answering his challenge.

  He grinned, teeth white in the moonlight. “That’s right. Come to me.”

  His voice dropped lower, roughened with ughter as he turned his head slightly toward the streets below. “My sons — down there. Kill every ghoul and infected you find. No mercy. No quarter.”

  Below, the two princes unched themselves from a rooftop into the chaos. Their descent was silent, fluid. Steel and spellcraft intertwined as ribbons of red and silver light carved through the swarm. Rhydan watched them for a heartbeat — proud, satisfied — before returning his gaze skyward.

  The first of the winged monsters reached him. Dozens followed, shrieking through the snow. Rhydan raised his bde — Fang — the great saber that glimmered like a shard of molten sun, half as wide as his shoulders.

  He met the first beast with a single motion.

  A wave of destruction, deep and thunderous, rippled outward in a perfect circle. The air around him detonated, and every creature within its reach turned to bck mist.

  Before that mist could fall — before a single drop could stain the roofs or cobblestones below — Rhydan raised his free hand.

  Fme erupted from the arc of his bde.

  It spread across the sky in a dome of roaring gold, devouring the blood-mist before it could touch the city. The night turned to dawn for an instant.

  From the streets below, the terrified and the faithful alike looked up and saw a god burning through the storm.

  Rhydan’s ughter rolled over the capital — thunder given voice — as the apocalyptic fire swallowed the horizon.

  ******

  The great bells of the Valenfor Cathedral tolled. Through each fsh of fme in the distance, colored light shuddered across the stone walls. The Pontifex stood before the high window, his hands csped behind his back.

  Below, the capital burned. The air quivered with distant thunder — or ughter. He couldn’t tell. The doors to the chamber opened, and a young priest stumbled in, robes dusted with ash. He knelt immediately, trying to catch his breath.

  “Your Eminence… the ghouls have reached the lower quarters. But the Imperial forces are holding the main thoroughfare. The fmes…” He hesitated. “The fmes seem to be spreading unnaturally."

  The Pontifex didn’t turn from the window.

  “How are the evacuations?” His voice was calm, almost weary — the kind of tone used by a man who’d watched empires rise and fall, and knew the pattern would repeat.

  “Nearly complete, Your Eminence,” the priest said quickly. “The lower sanctum and crypts are at capacity, but the acolytes continue to take in survivors.”

  The Pontifex nodded once. “Good. Then I will head down to begin the rites.”

  He paused, eyes still on the crimson horizon. “And send word to Saint Lucen."

  The priest looked up sharply. “Saint Lucen, Your Eminence? Is that necessary?” the priest asked. “Augustine, the LeFayes, even the Warlock Emperor—they’re here. Lucen’s half a continent away.”

  The Pontifex didn’t turn from the window. “They are powerful,” he said softly, “but even they have limits. Lucen is the only one who can stand everywhere at once. Send word, you have permission to use the telostone.”

  The priest hesitated only a heartbeat longer before bowing deeply. “At once, Your Eminence.”

  He hurried out, his footsteps echoing through the marble hall, fading into the roar of the bells.

  Left alone, the Pontifex turned back to the window. The snow outside was no longer white — it fell gray, coated in soot and blood. For the first time in years, he let his shoulders sag.

  He raised one trembling hand, tracing the sign of the Thorns over his chest.

  His voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Saints preserve us.”

  ******

  The streets of Valenfor shook beneath the Emperor’s stride.

  Valerion Ashmar moved through the chaos like a storm given form — no spells, no arcane flourishes, only the raw might of Vaylora burning in his veins. Each step left cracks in the cobblestone. Each swing of his bde sent shockwaves through the night air, pulverizing ghouls before the edge even reached them.

  Behind him, his voice cut through the din — calm, measured, absolute.

  “Second fnk, press north. Aric, tighten the formation. Serephine, clear the left avenue — keep the civilians moving.”

  Even amid fire and screams, his commands carried like thunder. There was no hesitation in those who followed; to disobey an Emperor like Valerion was to deny gravity itself.

  Prince Aric, captain of the royal guard, answered first. His greatsword swept in wide, elegant arcs, its sheer size belying the precision of its motion. The weapon’s golden edge carved through ghoul after ghoul, each strike clean, effortless — one smooth motion, then silence.

  To his side, Princess Serephine moved like a dancer in a storm. Her rapier flickered like silver lightning, cutting through necks and hearts without ever letting a drop of blood mar her gown. The faint shimmer of protective magic clung to her heels, letting her glide across rubble as though waltzing. The few citizens still lucid enough to witness her could only stare — she fought as though born to make dealing death an artform, and not a grim necessity.

  Above them, two blurs moved through the rooftops.

  Aelun’s bow sang, each shot a streak of color through the snow. Arrows of frost, fme, and light cut the sky in a shifting pattern. He moved like a falling leaf, weightless and untouchable.

  Opposite him, Augustine descended into the fray, the saint’s bde tracing lines of fire that never dimmed. Sword and spell interced in a rhythm so seamless it felt like a dance. The faint glow of his sigils shimmered around each movement, marking centuries of mastery distilled into grace.

  And through that storm of brilliance moved the Emperor’s budding legends: Darius and Cassian.

  They fought side by side, but the air between them buzzed with unspoken challenges.

  Darius’s every strike came in bursts — Devotion’s white fmes fring with each motion, his control far tighter than it had been. Gone was the wild, reckless bze of his earlier fights; now, his power struck with focused precision, arcs of silver fire cutting through monsters in clean, deliberate sweeps.

  Yet beside him, Cassian’s every motion outshone him.

  Serenity flowed in his grip like liquid light. The Crown Prince’s swordpy rivaled Darius’s in speed and surpassing grace — every parry effortless, every riposte a work of art. More infuriating still, he ced magic into his movements — illusions to mislead, bursts of lightning to blind, whispers of fme to finish.

  It wasn’t just a battle. It was a performance.

  Darius gritted his teeth as another ghoul fell in half before Cassian’s bde. His own fire fred hotter, burning white against the crimson backdrop.

  Cassian gnced at him mid-strike, his smirk sharp and infuriating.

  “Try not to slow me down, Inquisitor.”

  Darius’s answer was silent — a furious gre and a surge of fme that lit the sky above them. The next swing from Devotion left a radiant scar in the street, erasing a dozen ghouls in one furious stroke.

  For a heartbeat, Cassian looked almost impressed. Then he ughed — bright and reckless — as they plunged forward together into the burning city.

  *****

  From the skies above Valenfor, the night looked like a dying star — streets turned to molten rivers, rooftops colpsing under waves of light and shadow. Yet high above the inferno stood a host of mages.

  They did not hover on wings or clouds, but on a single vast ptform of light — a construct wrought from pure Vaylora, shaped and held by Morgan LeFaye’s will.

  Morgan stood at its center, her green-and-gold robes fluttering in the high wind, her red eyes gleaming with calm authority. Around her, dozens of mages looked down upon the chaos below — faces pale, spell-runes flickering weakly at their hands. None of them had seen power like this, not even among the Saints.

  Eryndor stared, barely breathing. “She… she’s holding us all,” he whispered. “This entire thing… by herself?”

  Selene gave no answer. The light from below painted her face in hues of red and gold — fire and blood. Even among witches, this level of control bordered on the divine.

  Morgan’s voice carried across the ptform, smooth and commanding. “Listen well.”

  She raised a single hand, her golden nails tracing a line through the air. Sigils fred at her fingertips — one for each mage before her. As her eyes moved across them, the circles beneath their feet began to shimmer, their individual Vaylora resonating with her own. She instructed each of them of their duties.

  “You have your orders,” she said. “Do not falter.”

  One by one, she motioned — and one by one, they vanished.

  Each mage was folded through space, teleported to a sector of the burning capital where their gifts could best be used. The ptform dimmed with each departure, the chorus of magic thinning until only four remained.

  Morgan turned to the three beside her — Selene, Isolde, and Eryndor. The wind pressed at their robes, carrying the scent of fire and ash up from the city.

  “Saintess,” Morgan said softly, her tone almost fond. “It’s about time the world remembered your name.”

  Isolde’s eyes glinted with resolve. She said nothing — only nodded once, and then lifted her hand. The air howled in response, wrapping around her like a cloak.

  In the next breath, she was gone — a streak of white and gold vanishing into the clouds, her departure marked by a spiral of wind that carved open the smoke.

  Eryndor looked after her, awe written pinly on his face. “And me?” he asked, voice low. “What am I to do, Lady LeFaye?”

  Morgan turned her gaze toward him, and for the first time that night, she smiled — not the sharp, knowing smile of a queen or witch, but the faint, warm one of a teacher.

  “You,” she said, “are to protect us.”

  Eryndor blinked. “Protect you?”

  Morgan nodded, her tone steady, almost maternal. “The spell we’re about to perform will demand our full focus. If anything reaches us — if our concentration breaks — the capital could fall.” She paused, meeting his eyes. “You will be our shield.”

  Eryndor’s throat tightened, but he bowed deeply. “I won’t fail you.”

  Morgan’s attention drifted to Selene. For a moment, the inferno below reflected in both of their eyes. Then, without a word, Selene reached to her side and drew her hand through the air.

  A shimmer answered her — space bending, parting — and from the void, a staff materialized.

  It was unlike the ornate weapon she had carried before. This one bore an almost divine elegance, forged from intertwined elven wood and dwarven-forged mithril, the materials coiling around each other like living vines. At its crown was a carved shard of Dragon Heart.

  Its light glowed softly against the snow.

  Morgan stared at it with quiet pride. “A fitting conduit,” she murmured.

  Selene pnted the staff before her, the Dragon Heart humming in answer. The Vaylora around them began to rise — first a whisper, then a song, then a storm, almost knocking Eryndor off his feet. The two seemed to enter a trance as words unknown to him flowed from their mouths.

  And then — far beyond the capital, deep in the mountains — thunder rolled.