The war still raged on.
Velgrynd desperately defended the western regions of Virelith. With each skirmish, their forces dwindled. Of the five thousand soldiers once stationed there... only one thousand remain.
Northwest of their stronghold, a woman walked with hurried steps, ragged breath escaping her lips. An injured soldier's arm hung over her shoulder as she struggled to keep him upright.
Around them, ruined buildings had already collapsed to the ground. Blown to pieces, they lay shattered and ignored. Nothing remained but white plains and the occasional heap of stone rubble.
Dust mixed with the snow, rising with every fireball that struck nearby.
"Leave me... run away," the man whispered, his tone barely audible.
Sachia ignored him and pressed on.
"Didn't you hear me, Sachia?" he said again, lifting his head slightly to look at her.
A small burst of flame exploded beside them, shaking the ground. They staggered but quickly regained their balance.
Sachia glanced down at the wounded soldier. His left arm was burnt, deep cuts carved across his body.
Wasting no time, she drew upon her Arcanum essence.
A bright light flickered around her. Sparks danced from her eyes.
With newfound strength and resolve, she dug her feet into the snow. A moment later, she launched forward in a burst of speed.
"Hold on just a little longer, sir," she said, running with all her might toward the northern outskirts.
Behind them, a group of Xiaran mages stood still, gazing in their direction.
"What should we do, Lady Eadda?" one of them asked, pointing. "Those rats are running."
Eadda gently removed her hood. Her dark violet hair fluttered in the wind as she turned to face her comrades.
"It doesn't matter," she said with a soft voice, brushing aside strands that danced before her eyes. "The Kindled warrior is already fatally wounded. That little girl can't do anything on her own."
A wicked smile tugged at her lips. "Still, we should make sure they're dead, shouldn't we?"
With a slight gesture, she signaled several mages to follow. They set off almost immediately.
Sachia ran on, dragging the barely conscious soldier behind her.
Being only Awakened, her Arcanum essence quickly dried up.
But something else tugged at her attention.
Glancing around between breaths, she noticed something strange.
At first, only a few—but the deeper she went, the more she saw: Xiaran corpses, every one impaled by pitch-black weapons.
What is this—
Before she could dwell on it further, her essence gave out.
Her strength failed. She stumbled and collapsed into the snow.
The warrior beside her hit the ground with a painful grunt.
"I'm sorry," she said in a panic, brushing snow from her eyes. "Are you alright?"
The man gritted his teeth and gave a slow nod.
He placed a hand on her shoulder as she glanced back—the mages were gaining on them fast.
I have to run… but...
She looked at the injured man. He could no longer walk. Barely breathing, his body trembled.
Should I leave him and save myself? The thought struck her like lightning. Her eyes narrowed.
She shook her head violently.
God, what am I thinking?
A shout rang out behind her. "Catch them!"
She turned and ran again, dragging the soldier with her. Her body screamed with every movement, but she didn't stop.
Minutes passed. Still she ran.
Her body ached, her vision blurred. The soldier she carried had lost consciousness. She couldn't even tell if he was still alive.
Sachia herself was nearing collapse. Her legs trembled. Her lungs burned. Her essence was gone, and her mind teetered on the edge.
Finally, she lost her grip. The soldier fell first.
She tried to catch him, but she tumbled over next.
I can't go on...
Through the fog in her vision, she saw a ruined temple before them.
Half of it had collapsed. The other half looked barely intact.
What... she thought, staring at where the doors should have been.
There, two ropes hung from the top pillars. Two lifeless bodies swayed in the wind, bound tightly at the neck.
Before she could look any longer, footsteps echoed behind her.
"Nowhere to run, huh, rat?" a young-sounding voice called out.
Sachia struggled to her feet. Her legs trembled as she faced the speaker.
A young girl, maybe fifteen to seventeen, approached. She wore the classic indigo cloak of the Xiaran mages. Her bright green eyes gleamed with amusement, a sheepish smile curling her lips.
Five other mages stood behind her. All of them Awakened.
Sachia drew her short sword, pointing it forward with both hands.
The young mage cocked her head. "Wait, do you actually want to fight?"
She giggled behind her hand before bursting into laughter.
Then, just as suddenly, her amusement faded.
"Alright, that's enough. Just give up," she said, extending her hand toward Sachia.
Sachia clutched her sword tightly. Her legs shook from exhaustion and fear.
I'm sorry. Mother, Father... it looks like this is the end.
The mage girl smiled again, but before she could unleash her spell, someone tapped her on the shoulder.
"What?" she snapped, irritation flashing across her face.
"Miss..." one of the mages said, his voice trembling slightly, "look around."
"What are you talking about?" she asked, spinning around.
Her heart dropped.
All around them—corpses. Some lay slumped on the snow, black weapons embedded in their chests. Others were beheaded, their heads impaled on obsidian spears.
Every corpse had its eyes shut, their expressions emotionless. Only their hair still moved, dancing with the wind.
The girl's stomach churned at the sight. She fought the urge to vomit, her eyes drifting to the temple.
No, no, no... Her gaze locked on the hanging bodies.
She recognized them instantly.
"Sir Priam… Miss Diana…" she whispered, voice shaking.
Impossible. They were Crimson Kindled... Who could've done this?
Sachia blinked, confused by the girl's sudden horror.
What's going on?
Then the same mage who had warned the girl spoke again.
"Isn't this... The Ghost's Temple?"
Impossible...
The girl's eyes widened in terror. She turned to Sachia with hatred burning in her eyes.
"You bitch! You led us to the Ghost of Solmira!"
Her scream echoed through the Virelith outskirts.
Sachia furrowed her brow. "The Ghost of... Solmira?"
"Don't play dumb!" the girl shouted again.
At that moment, something in the air changed.
An eerie silence fell across the landscape. Even the wind stopped its cries.
The world dimmed, and a suffocating pressure pressed down on them. The air grew thin, every breath drawn with difficulty.
The girl looked up.
Sachia followed her gaze.
"Shit…" the mage whispered.
Perched atop the temple ruins, a lone figure sat comfortably on the edge, legs dangling in the air.
Lior.
His long jet-black hair danced in the cold wind. His sharp jaw and delicate lips didn't move. In his lap, Ashrender rested—silent, waiting to be drawn.
His dark eyes swirled like whirlpools, silver rings shimmering faintly. His expression betrayed no emotion.
"Who is he?" Sachia asked, awe in her voice.
The girl didn't answer. She turned to her group.
"Retreat!" she barked. "Leave the girl—use the chance to escape!"
The mages turned, ready to flee.
But before they could move, a whisper slithered through the air.
"Stop."
Their stomachs dropped. Fear paralyzed them.
They turned to look at Lior.
His face remained still—only his lips had moved.
A whisper—soft and cold—brushed across their ears.
"There is no escape."