The sun didn't rise on Dunbar.
A crimson hue bled through the overcast skies—no warmth, only the haze of a false dawn. The tower behind them had crumbled, and the echoes of the Delsin conflict still lingered in the static-rich air. Burnt stone, twisted metal, silence—Dunbar had become a war room.
Anthony stood at the edge of the shattered promenade overlooking the lifeless streets. His breathing was shallow, not from exhaustion but uncertainty. The victory over Delsin felt hollow. The tower's destruction had drawn out something else—something worse.
The Maelstrom was moving.
From the east, black clouds rolled unnaturally, devouring the skyline. Not mere weather. It pulsed with malevolence, screaming in frequencies only the broken could hear. Winds whispered in tongues long lost, dragging ash across the ground like searching fingers.
Anthony gripped the reforged spear tighter. His left arm twitched—a faint jolt of residual energy crackled through it. He still wasn't used to the sensation of absorbing power from the dead around him.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, the image of Mark's lifeless body still haunted him—not the memory of his death, but Anthony's own reaction: the way he shook the body, begging it to respond… and then consumed it, like a child refusing to understand what death meant.
He didn't understand. Not truly. He never had.
"Riley should've reached Dunbar by now," he muttered, low enough for only himself to hear.
Behind him, Zeke, still bandaged from the fall, leaned against the half-ruined command pillar, whittling a piece of the tower's core into something vaguely resembling a coin.
"She's close," Zeke replied. "You'd know if she wasn't. She follows you like a shadow that learned how to bleed."
Anthony didn't respond. His eyes remained locked on the approaching storm.
---
The Command Briefing
In what was left of the war room beneath Delsin Tower's remains, survivors of the resistance—Conduits, ex-militia, refugees—gathered around a hologram platform flickering erratically. The city's last functioning systems ran on borrowed time and jury-rigged energy harvested from corpses and broken barrier-tech.
A patchy 3D projection of the Maelstrom hovered over the map—uncontained, devouring ruins, tearing open the crust of the earth. It had direction now.
"The Maelstrom is feeding," said an older tactician, his voice hollow. "It's not moving aimlessly. It's building a path. A purpose."
Anthony watched quietly, scanning the markings. Something clicked. It wasn't just feeding—it was circling something. Containing it.
Or guarding it.
"We need the Order," Anthony said suddenly. "The four."
Zeke looked up. "The Order of the Crimson Flame? That's legend."
"Not all legends lie."
He opened his hand. From within, four glowing fragments, retrieved after the tower's collapse, shimmered faintly.
"These match the symbols in Averon's sealed room," Anthony added. "He knew them. He wasn't their leader—but he was meant to be the fifth."
Zeke stopped fiddling with the wood.
"The Rouge. The Engineer. The Warrior. The Architect," Anthony said aloud. "Each created part of the old world's foundation. Each abandoned it before it fell."
He looked out toward the wastelands, knowing the journey ahead would bring more than revelation. It would bring blood. Maybe betrayal.
And Riley… he needed her. Not for the plan. For him.
---
Meanwhile: Her Arrival
Riley arrived at dusk, breathless, her clothes torn, hair ragged. The streets had not been kind. Her eyes found Anthony instantly, and his hardened stare cracked. Just for a moment.
Zeke gave a mock bow despite his injuries. "And who's this shadow with a soul?"
Anthony sighed. "Riley, Zeke. Zeke, Riley."
Zeke leaned on his cane and grinned. "I'd offer you a date, but I might not survive the night."
Riley raised a brow. "Sure… Only if we both survive the week."
Anthony groaned. "Can we focus?"
---
Preparation Begins
Throughout the night, Dunbar became a forge.
Every functioning barrier was tested. Engineers welded machines using blueprints older than the fall. Magic and conduit energy were layered into traps that hadn't been used since the Demon Wars. Even the street lamps hummed with a foreign power now—drained from ancient sealed shrines Anthony and Zeke had broken into over weeks.
Anthony taught what little he knew to new conduits—only a handful. Born from proximity to ruptured Conduit cores and Delsin's death, they were unstable, frightened, and volatile.
Two stood out. One girl, maybe thirteen, could channel vibrations through her breath. The other, a scarred man with silent eyes, disrupted gravity in short pulses. Anthony didn't trust either—but he had no choice.
"We'll need them," he said.
"No," Zeke replied. "We'll need you. They're not ready."
---
Final Note
Before the chapter ended, Anthony sat in silence alone, staring at a faded drawing in his notebook: five figures standing before a broken world. The fifth stood behind the others. Hidden.
Averon's sigil burned on the page.
He whispered, almost like a child repeating bedtime stories:
> "The White Demon ever recovers…"
The candle beside him flickered blue.