The front lines of Crestfall stretched beneath a sky the color of old steel, heavy and unyielding. Mist crept low across the shattered plains, curling around broken wagons, trampled grass, and half-buried banners streaked with the sigil of the fallen crown. Smoke from distant fires mingled with the fog, blurring the horizon into bruised shades of gray and violet.

  Atop the highest rise, Selene Vael stood with her cloak whipping around her like a living shadow. The wind tugged at her hair, cold and sharp as a blade, but she did not flinch. She did not look afraid. She looked focused.

  “Confirm the count again,” Selene said, her voice calm but edged with steel.

  A knight stepped forward, kneeling. His armor was dented, streaked with dust, and his gauntleted hands trembled slightly as he spoke. “Two hundred and twelve infantry. Forty-eight archers. Twelve mage-support units. All ready, Captain.”

  Selene nodded slowly, scanning the foggy distance. “And the enemy?”

  “Scouts report a forward Valenreach encampment roughly half a league ahead,” the knight replied. “Light fortifications. No banners raised.”

  Another knight frowned, unease in his voice. “Too quiet.”

  Selene’s gaze hardened. “Everything has been too quiet since Vale fell.”

  The name hung in the cold air, bitter as ash. A murmur ran through the knights—Sir Aurelius Phineas Vale. Even now, the name carried weight: loss, failure, and a wound that had not healed.

  “We strike before they relocate,” Selene said. “If this is a staging camp, it dies tonight.”

  A younger knight shifted, uneasily gripping his sword. “Captain… something feels wrong.”

  Selene turned, her gaze softening for the briefest instant. “Fear keeps you alive. Let it sharpen you, not freeze you.”

  She lifted her bow. It was not of wood.

  The weapon shimmered faintly, formed from condensed mana, lines of light etched across it in subtle, harmonic ripples—like frozen music. As her fingers brushed the string, a quiet hum filled the air, barely audible, but felt in the bones.

  “Arrow of Songs,” whispered one of the archers reverently.

  Selene exhaled and stepped forward.

  “Advance.”

  Crestfall knights surged ahead, boots pounding the sodden earth, banners snapping in the cold wind. The fog parted before them like a hesitant tide. Ahead, the enemy camp came into view: neat rows of tents, supply crates, and strange metal contraptions mounted on crude tripods.

  Several knights slowed, eyes wide.

  “What in the Crown’s name are those?” one muttered.

  “They’re not ballistae,” another said. “Too small. Too… wrong.”

  Selene raised her fist.

  “Halt.”

  The camp stirred. Figures emerged—Valenreach soldiers, yes—but behind them were shapes the Crestfall knights had never seen before: metal tubes, thick barrels mounted on wooden stocks, crude devices bound with bolts and wire, desperate and dangerous.

  A man stepped forward from the enemy lines, laughing. His hair was a chaotic mix of white and black, eyes gleaming unnaturally bright. His coat was scorched and streaked with oil.

  “Oh—oh, this is perfect,” he said, clapping his hands. “Absolutely perfect timing!”

  Selene’s eyes narrowed. “Identify yourself.”

  He bowed theatrically. “Dr. Malrec Veynholm. Inventor. Visionary. Slightly unappreciated genius.”

  One of Selene’s knights hissed, “Captain… those weapons—”

  Malrec’s grin widened. “Guns,” he said proudly. “Proto-guns. First of their kind. Marvels, really. Sometimes they explode. Sometimes they don’t fire. Sometimes they fire twice. Science is thrilling like that.”

  Selene’s fingers tightened around her bow. “You picked a poor place to test them.”

  “On the contrary,” Malrec replied with a flourish. He snapped his fingers. “Fire.”

  The world broke.

  A thunderclap tore across the battlefield—sharp, violent, alien. Smoke erupted from the Valenreach lines as metal roared and spat fire. Knights screamed—not in pain, but in pure, unthinking shock.

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  “What was that?!”

  “By the Crown—my shield—!”

  “It pierced straight through!”

  Selene’s eyes widened as a knight beside her collapsed, his armor penetrated, flung backward like a ragdoll.

  “No arrows,” someone shouted. “No spells!”

  Another crack. Another roar. The sound rattled teeth, reverberated in bones, stole breath.

  “Shields up!” Selene commanded. “Advance—don’t let them reload!”

  They charged. Arrows flew, steel and mana alike—but the guns answered with savage, relentless rhythm. Some misfired, bursting into sparks and screams. But enough fired.

  Enough to matter.

  The Valenreach line did not need precision. Only noise. Only force.

  Selene loosed an arrow. It screamed through the air, vibrating with harmonic energy. It struck a gunner, detonating in a concussive wave that knocked three soldiers off their feet.

  “Left flank, with me!” she shouted.

  Another arrow pierced the enemy shield, striking the ground behind it. A sonic shock shattered wooden frames and tents alike.

  Still, the guns roared.

  The battlefield became chaos: smoke, thunder, shouted prayers, broken formations.

  “They’re cutting us down!” a knight cried.

  Selene felt it too. This was no ordinary battle. It was an experiment. They were the subjects.

  She planted her feet, drawing deeply from her mana. The air around her bow shimmered, vibrating like a struck chord.

  “Cover your ears!” she shouted.

  Her knights obeyed.

  Selene aimed high, into the steel-gray clouds. She released. The arrow vanished.

  For one breath, silence.

  Then the sky sang.

  A distant, mournful resonance echoed over the battlefield, not lyrics, not words—just a melody full of memory and loss. Some knights recognized it faintly, an old tune whispered among camps and ashes: Dancing Ashes.

  The arrow fragmented into thousands of glowing shards, raining down like falling stars. Each shard hummed with its own note, striking ground, armor, weapons, flesh—detonating in flashes of light and sound. Sonic waves rippled outward, toppling soldiers, shattering tents, collapsing lines.

  Valenreach screamed. Crestfall screamed. The battlefield became a storm of sound and fire.

  Selene staggered, blood at the corner of her mouth.

  “That took too much,” she muttered.

  A knight grabbed her arm. “Captain—look!”

  Through the smoke, Valenreach soldiers still stood. Fewer, but standing. And behind them, Malrec Veynholm laughed, eyes gleaming.

  “Incredible! Absolutely incredible!” he shouted. “Did you see that resonance?! We need to adjust the firing pins—load again! LOAD AGAIN!”

  Another volley roared. Crestfall formations splintered.

  “Retreat!” someone yelled.

  “No!” Selene snapped. “Hold the line!”

  But the line was already breaking. Guns thundered, shields shattered, knights fell. The sound alone stole courage from hardened veterans.

  Selene fired again. Slower now. Weaker. Her mana draining fast.

  A knight fell at her feet.

  “Captain…” he whispered. “We can’t—”

  Selene gritted her teeth. “I know.”

  She looked across the battlefield—the smoke, the thunder, the future crashing down with every shot.

  This wasn’t just a loss. It was the end of an age.

  “Fall back!” she ordered at last. “Get whoever you can out!”

  Crestfall forces retreated under the relentless fire. Valenreach banners rose high. Malrec watched them flee, eyes gleaming with manic delight.

  “Oh yes,” he murmured. “This will change everything.”

  Behind him, the guns smoked and hissed—some broken, some silent, some ready to roar again.

  The battle was not over. But its direction was clear. Crestfall was losing.