The Journey, Book 2: Chapter 44 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 45: Time
The morning broke pale and bitter over Edena. Across the plain, ten thousand soldiers advanced in grim ranks, their armour clattering like rolling thunder. From the walls, the defenders watched, silent, their breaths white in the cold.
Rubian lifted one hand. The drums of war answered.
The first waves met Vivi’s trap. Trenches disguised with soil gave way under marching boots, men impaled on hidden spikes. Oil caught fire, flames racing in sudden rivers of light. Smoke choked the air as soldiers screamed, their bodies piling at the choke point. Vivi’s three thousand braced behind the carnage, shields locked, spears angled like the teeth of some ancient beast.
Through the chaos came Thomaz.
He advanced like a storm front, deliberate and unstoppable. His scarred face, split by the jagged claw marks running from brow to chin, seemed carved for this moment: a grotesque mask of authority and rage. Wherever soldiers lagged before him, he shoved them aside, struck them down, or cut them where they stood. None dared stand in his path for long.
“VIVI!” he roared, voice carrying above the screams, above the clash of steel. “Come out and face me, coward! You think you can steal my throne? You think Edena is yours? It belongs to me. All of it belongs to me!”
He hacked down one of his own men who stumbled, blood spraying across his armour, and the troops before him scrambled faster to clear a path. His advance was a tide of fear as much as steel. Arrows hissed from the walls, a dozen shafts striking around him, one grazing his arm. He barely flinched, his voice rising even louder.
“You are nothing, Vivi! A shadow! A pretender! I will burn this city to ash before I let you take what is mine!”
On the parapets, Elvina steadied her archers with her own unshaking tone. “Loose!” she commanded, and black volleys rained down into the packed enemy ranks. Men fell in heaps, but Thomaz’s slow, grinding push never stopped. His presence spread panic, his scarred visage like a spector stalking through smoke and flame.
At the far flank, Rubian whispered in the ancient tongue, each word heavy as stone. The walls trembled, cracks spider-webbing outward, defenders clutching at the battlements. Dust fell like ash across Edena. For a heartbeat, it seemed the fortress itself might collapse.
But the magic faltered. The resonance broke. The cracks stilled. The walls endured.
Rubian’s face remained unreadable, but beneath his calm calculation a thin edge of frustration gleamed. He signalled, and ladders rose. If he could not bring the walls down, he would take them with his own hands. Cloak drawn tight, he began to climb, ignoring the rain of arrows striking the men beside him.
Below, Vivi stood unyielding among his soldiers, shield arm aching, throat raw from commands. Smoke burned his lungs, but his eyes never left Thomaz. Across the battlefield, Thomaz’s gaze found his, the scarred king’s smile twisting in cruel triumph.
Step by step, Thomaz pressed closer, dragging the weight of an army behind him. Fire roared, arrows fell, the walls shook with the struggle. Edena still stood, but the tide was rising, and all could feel the shadow of its fall creeping nearer.
The choke point burned with smoke and blood. Vivi’s men stood shoulder to shoulder, shields locked tight, their formation battered but unbroken. Spears thrust with mechanical rhythm, piercing through any who pressed too close. For every defender that fell, another stepped forward to close the gap.
Thomaz loomed just beyond, his scarred face twisted in fury. His soldiers clogged the choke point, slowing his advance. He snarled, hacked one down, then shoved another into the flames. None were spared his wrath—not enemy, not ally. Wherever he walked, blood followed. His voice boomed above the din.
“Cowards! Move or die! I will cut down every one of you before I let a single step of Edena slip from my grasp!”
The shield wall trembled under the pressure but did not break. Thomaz’s dark eyes, glinting with a fevered will, locked again on Vivi across the carnage. His path was choked, yet his presence alone made the defenders tighten their grips, knowing he would not stop until their commander’s blood lay on his blade.
High above the clash, Rubian’s patience had worn thin. The walls had resisted his words of unmaking, so he had chosen another path. His climb was relentless, methodical, each movement as precise as the man himself. Now he stood upon Edena’s parapet, twin short swords gleaming like fangs.
Archers cried out as he moved among them, blades flashing, bodies falling. Elvina’s orders wavered as Rubian cut through her lines, the balance of the wall tipping into chaos.
Then the sky darkened with a shadow.
A great raven dove from the clouds, wings stretched wide. With a deafening caw it burst into a cloud of green smoke, feathers scattering like ash. From the smoke stepped Tivor, eyes glinting, cloak rippling with arcane energy.
Rubian turned, his cold face unflinching at the sudden apparition. For the first time this day, a flicker of challenge sparked in his eyes. He spread his stance and raised his blades.
Tivor’s voice rang out in the ancient language, deep and resonant, words crackling with power. Shards of ice swirled into a shield before him, glistening with frost. Flames bloomed in his hands, twisting into roiling spheres of fire.
The two men faced each other on the parapet, battle raging beneath them, the smoke and arrows and screams all falling away into silence around their meeting. Rubian lifted his blades in grim salute. Tivor’s fireballs blazed brighter, the air around him warping with heat.
On Edena’s walls, sparks flew as Rubian’s twin blades carved arcs of silver through the smoke. Tivor’s ice shield splintered under each strike, shards bursting like shattered glass across the parapet. Fireballs hissed from Tivor’s hands, streaking green through the air, exploding against steel with deafening cracks. Rubian advanced step by step, relentless, his face a mask of cold precision, his blades flashing like fangs.
Tivor met him with fluid grace, retreating and countering, each word of the ancient tongue birthing another weapon, walls of frost that crumbled under Rubian’s assault, bursts of flame that forced him back. Then Tivor’s hand blazed emerald, and he hurled a ball of green fire. It struck Rubian’s cloak, igniting it in an eerie blaze that licked hungrily at the dark fabric.
Rubian shed the flaming cloth without breaking stride, his eyes glinting with something close to amusement as the fire consumed it. He twirled his blades and lunged forward, just as Elvina’s voice rose above the chaos.
From her hand she hurled her ruby-colored sword. It spun through the smoke like a shard of sunlight, caught perfectly in Tivor’s grip. Power flared, crimson fire dancing along its edge.
Tivor leapt forward with renewed fury. He fell upon Rubian in a flurry of strikes—slashes, thrusts, spinning arcs that painted the air in red light. The parapet rang with steel on steel as Rubian’s short swords moved like water, parrying every blow, answering each strike with lethal precision. Sparks rained around them, the rhythm of their duel as fierce as the war below.
And below, Thomaz had reached his quarry.
The deranged king pushed through his own dead and dying men, scarred face glistening with sweat and blood. His eyes burned with a dark light as he stood before Vivi at last.
Vivi tore his cloak free and cast it aside. In his right hand gleamed a sword, plain but steady; in his left, his staff crowned with a sunstone that caught the morning light and turned it into fire. He planted his feet, steady as the wall behind him, his voice carrying through the smoke.
“Here I am, Thomaz. In the flesh… It's been a long time, King.”
Thomaz smiled, the three clawed scar twisting into a grotesque crescent. “Everything is mine. You’ll die knowing it.”
The two men squared off, the world shrinking to their circle of fire and steel.
And then, from the hills beyond Edena, the sound of a trumpet split the air. Deep, sonorous, proud, it was the call of the Dwarves. Their war horn echoed across the plain, and the ground seemed to tremble with the rhythm of their march.
Moments later, another horn answered. Higher, melodic, sharp as silver. The Elves had come as well. Their voices carried on the wind like a song of judgement.
Both armies, locked in their struggle, faltered for a heartbeat, eyes turning toward the horizon. Allies had come. The battle for Edena was no longer just theirs—it was the opening of a war that would decide the fate of kingdoms.
On Edena’s parapet, Tivor and Rubian’s duel raged. Steel rang like a cracked bell as Rubian’s twin short swords battered Tivor’s ruby blade, parries and counterstrikes sparking with every furious exchange. Ice shields shattered to shards, fireballs exploded against steel, scorching the stones beneath their boots. Rubian pressed forward with cold determination, every movement precise and lethal; Tivor answered with the ancient tongue, the air alive with frost and flame, his fury spilling into every strike.
Rubian pressed low, slashing at Tivor’s legs; Tivor spun, blade catching both swords with a screech, fire trailing through the smoke. Rubian lunged again, but Tivor’s free hand ignited another green fireball, forcing him back with a blast that set the air quivering with heat.
Below, Vivi faced Thomaz. The deranged king’s scarred face split into a smile that was more a wound than an expression, his voice booming over the battlefield.
“You will kneel, Vivi! The crown is mine, Edena is mine, all of this is mine!”
Vivi’s cloak lay in the dirt, his staff glowing with sunfire in his left hand, his sword steady in his right. His answer was calm, but it cut deeper than steel.
“Then the world will remember me standing.”
Their weapons clashed, sparks raining as steel met staff. Vivi’s defence was precise, Thomaz’s offence relentless, every blow hammering forward like the will of a man who believed himself destined to rule.
And then the horns sounded.
A deep, thunderous blast shook the hills, rolling across the plain. Out of the haze stormed the Dwarves, fifteen hundred strong, armoured in steel that gleamed like molten rock, axes and hammers raised high. At their head marched King Althor, his warhammer gleaming in both hands, his beard braided with silver rings that flashed in the firelight. His voice rose with the horn’s echo, and the Dwarves struck the rear of Thomaz’s host like a wall of iron came alive.
Before the enemy could recover, another horn answered—a clear, melodic note that carried like silver through smoke and blood. Out of the mists came the Elves, another fifteen hundred, their ranks swift and sharp. At their head strode Queen Gabija, her golden hair catching the dawn light, her curved blade singing with each step. She led her warriors in a storm of arrows and steel, their advance cutting through the enemy with fluid, merciless grace.
The plain erupted in chaos. Thomaz’s army, caught between Edena’s walls and the fury of Dwarf and Elf, reeled in panic. Men screamed as the Dwarves smashed into them, their hammers breaking shields like kindling. Elven arrows rained death in unbroken volleys, their soldiers following with blades that flashed like lightning.
But still, numbers told the truth. The defenders, now swollen to nearly seven thousand with their allies, remained outnumbered by Thomaz’s host. Both sides bled heavily. The Dwarves, though unbreakable, fell in heaps before sheer numbers. The Elves carved their way into the enemy lines, but each victory left their ranks thinner.
On the wall, Elvina’s archers cheered as they loosed fresh volleys, hope rekindled in their veins. On the parapet, Tivor pressed his assault with the ruby sword blazing, Rubian parrying every furious strike. Below, Vivi and Thomaz crashed together again, their duel at the heart of the storm.
The battle for Edena spiralled into a storm of steel and fire.
On the ground, Vivi met Thomaz’s assault with grim resolve. The deranged king came at him like a thunderhead, his sword cleaving down in heavy, brutal arcs. Vivi’s staff, glowing with the sunstone’s fire, turned aside the worst of the blows while his sword parried and deflected the rest. Sparks rained from each impact, the clangour echoing like a bell tolling doom.
Then, with a surge of focus, Vivi struck back. His sword slipped past Thomaz’s guard, cutting across the king’s forearm. Another slash drew blood from his thigh. A third scored his shoulder. Thomaz staggered back, crimson running down his armour—then threw back his head and laughed, the scar across his face twisting into a grotesque mask of triumph.
“Is that all you’ve got, thief?” he spat, voice raw. “A few scratches? I’ll peel your skin from your bones and wear it as a cloak!”
He lunged again, words as sharp as his blade, insults growing fouler with every strike. Vivi braced, each block rattling through his arms, each parry a step deeper into exhaustion.
Above them, Tivor and Rubian’s duel raged across the parapet. The ruby blade burned arcs of crimson as Tivor pressed his advantage, flames and frost lashing the air. Rubian’s short swords deflected each strike, his movements honed to merciless precision. They circled, clashed, locked steel against steel, their faces spattered with ash and blood.
Neither yielded. Neither slowed.
And then—betrayed by the chaos—they both slipped. Blood pooled on the parapet stones, slick and treacherous. Tivor’s boot skidded; Rubian’s footing gave way. Locked together in their fury, they toppled from the wall. They hit the ground hard, steel clattering, dust and gore rising around them.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield seemed to draw breath.
Then the sky darkened.
A shadow vast and terrible swept across the plain. Wings beat the air like thunder, scattering smoke. From the clouds descended Elqiana, the great white opal dragon, her scales gleaming like living pearl, her wings stretching wide enough to swallow the sun. On her back sat Tarasque, eyes burning with battle-fire, and behind her Dorianna, gripping the saddle with grim determination. Perched at the dragon’s head, little Snowy raised her arms like a queen on her throne.
As Elqiana swooped lower, Snowy’s form shimmered. She stood upright on the dragon’s skull, balanced effortlessly despite the gale of wings. With a mischievous grin, she waved coyly at Tara and Dorianna, as if mocking the horror below. Then, without hesitation, she dove—hurling herself from Elqiana’s head into the throng of soldiers below, vanishing into the chaos with a laugh.
Elqiana roared, the sound tearing the battlefield in two. It was a sound of iron and fury, loud enough to rattle bones, harsh enough to drown the clash of armies. Flames licked at the corners of her maw, the air quivering with her power.
On the ground, Thomaz stumbled mid-swing, his eyes widening at the sight of the dragon descending. Rubian, dragging himself to his feet, spat blood into the dirt. Both men cursed, their voices hoarse and venomous, as they looked upon the new terror falling into their war.
The battle raged on, chaos thick and choking, when King Althor stepped forward from the ranks of the Dwarves. His warhammer gleamed like molten metal in the smoke, each swing precise and devastating. With a roar that shook the air, he bellowed commands, calling the Dwarves’ attention back to discipline and fury.
“Forward! Crush them! Let them taste steel and stone!”
The Dwarves responded instantly, axes and hammers swinging with renewed vigour. Each step of Althor’s hammer shattered shields and sent soldiers sprawling. Where panic had begun to take root among his ranks, his presence drove fear into the hearts of the enemy. Each Dwarf fought not just for the city but for the king who led them with unshakeable determination.
At the same time, high above the battlefield, Queen Gabija lifted her voice over the din, melodic and commanding. Her blade glittered with sunlight as she guided her Elves, their arrows now raining with deadly precision.
“Strike true! Let no enemy stand before Edena!”
The Elves surged, weaving between smoke and fire, cutting down enemy soldiers with fluid, almost effortless grace. Gabija’s calm authority steadied them even when the enemy counterattacked; she moved through their ranks like a force of nature, parrying, thrusting, spurring her warriors onward with words and deeds.
Below, the defenders began to rally, the shield wall pressing harder against Thomaz’s relentless tide, inspired by Althor and Gabija’s leadership. Though outnumbered, their morale surged, each blow struck with renewed determination.
Above the battlefield, Elqiana hovered like a pearl in the storm of smoke and blood. Her massive wings beat without pause, yet she did not descend to attack. The dragon’s gaze swept the throng below; every fire blast risked hitting friend as well as foe. She restrained herself, each beat of her wings sending gusts that scattered ash and arrows, warning soldiers and enemies alike of her presence without harm.
Tara perched on her back, white flames blazing in her hands, hurled spheres of fire toward Thomaz’s army. Each impact erupted into controlled bursts, singing armour and scattering groups of soldiers without risking their allies. Even small fires flared in precise arcs, tipping the balance in tight skirmishes.
Behind her, Dorianna, though not fully healed, joined in. Yellow fireballs spun from her hands, trailing sparks across the battlefield. Her aim was measured, calculated, each orb disrupting enemy formations, forcing the tide to bend and giving the defenders precious breathing space.
The battlefield had become a maelstrom of coordinated fury. On the ground, Vivi parried Thomaz’s brutal strikes; the Dwarves hammered from behind; the Elves struck with lethal grace; fireballs arced from above. Sparks, blood, and flame intermingled, and yet amidst the chaos, the individual heroics—Althor smashing through enemy ranks, Gabija weaving with deadly elegance, Tara and Dorianna shaping the battlefield from above—gave the defenders a renewed edge.
Even with seven thousand against ten thousand, the defenders held. The tide had shifted, just enough to give hope that perhaps, with courage and strategy, Edena might yet withstand the storm.
On the ground, the clash between Vivi and Thomaz burned hotter than the surrounding chaos. Thomaz’s scarred face was a mask of cruel intent, his eyes fixed solely on the man who dared to defy him. Every swing of his sword was measured, calculated, yet brutal—a relentless tide aimed to crush Vivi’s defences.
Vivi met each strike with the sunstone-tipped staff and sword in tandem, parrying, twisting, striking back wherever an opening appeared. Sparks flew as steel clanged against steel, the sound ringing above the din of battle. Thomaz cursed, laughed, and hurled venomous insults, each more cutting than the last, yet never losing focus on his quarry.
Nearby, Rubian and Tivor had risen from the blood-slick ground, their robes and armour stained with the aftermath of their fall. They circled each other warily, breathing hard but unyielding. Every movement was precise, eyes locked, muscles coiled like springs. Then, in a simultaneous burst, they lunged again, blades flashing and spells igniting around them. Ice and fire met steel in sparks and arcs of destruction, the earth beneath them scarred and smoking.
Above the battlefield, the sky shivered. A bolt of purple-orange lightning stabbed through the clouds, twisting in midair before exploding with a deafening boom that shook soldiers off their feet. All eyes lifted, and there, on the crest of a hill just beyond the field, stood Nekira. His presence radiated authority and danger, and at his side, Captain Jason Moore led an army of two thousand, disciplined and ready.
The defenders on the walls and in the field instinctively stiffened at the sight, while the enemy faltered for a heartbeat, unsure how to respond to this new arrival. From far above, hidden in the sky, Amira observed silently, her form invisible to both armies, waiting for the precise moment to intervene.
Nekira’s bolt had served its purpose: a signal of arrival, a herald of the next turn in the war. Beneath it, the battle continued to rage—Vivi and Thomaz locked in their deadly duel, Rubian and Tivor entwined in magical steel combat, and the defenders, spurred by Althor and Gabija, fought like wolves against overwhelming odds.
The battlefield had shifted again, the stakes escalating with each pulse of magic, the clash of blades, and the roar of armies. All forces now knew that the endgame for Edena was no longer just a contest of numbers, but of heroes, wills, and the raw edge of destiny itself.
The horizon erupted as Nekira’s army surged forward, two thousand disciplined soldiers pounding into Thomaz’s rear. The ground trembled under their advance. King Althor roared a battle cry, swinging his hammer, and the Dwarves charged alongside, axes smashing into Thomaz’s flanks. Queen Gabija led her Elves in a graceful, deadly arc, arrows cutting through the chaos with precision. Fireballs from Tara and Dorianna streaked through smoke and dust, disrupting enemy ranks and forcing Thomaz’s soldiers to scatter.
Yet even amidst the onslaught, Thomaz did not waver. His eyes never left Vivi. His sword moved with a terrible, deliberate rhythm, each strike meant to kill, to punish, to assert his claim over all he believed was his. Vivi parried and blocked, sunstone staff and sword a shield of light against the king’s fury. Sparks flew as steel struck steel, the air thick with smoke, blood, and the smell of charred oil.
Above them, Tivor and Rubian’s battle continued in relentless cycles. Sparks flew from Tivor’s ruby sword, fire and ice clashing against Rubian’s twin blades. Each strike was a symphony of precision and rage, parries and counters echoing the violence below. They moved in perfect, deadly rhythm, circling one another across the scorched ground.
Then, from the shadows behind the chaos, a chill swept the battlefield. A figure emerged, dark and sudden—the Corrupter. His grey eyes glinted with malice, and the world seemed to constrict around him. With a snap of his fingers, a wave of unnatural force cut through the combatants.
Vivi froze mid-parry, staff and sword suspended in the air, eyes wide as though the world had turned to stone. Thomaz’s grin widened, cruel and unhinged. With a single, fluid motion, he plunged his sword straight through Vivi’s heart. Vivi gasped once, a flash of defiance in his eyes, then fell, lifeless to the blood-soaked earth.
Tivor’s scream pierced the air as he turned, distracted, calling out for his brother. His focus shattered. Rubian saw the opening, the flash of red on Tivor’s neck, and did not hesitate. His blade arced with lethal precision, slicing through the air and severing Tivor’s spine. Tivor fell with a cry of anguish, his magic sputtering, the ruby sword clattering to the ground beside him.
The battlefield seemed to reel. Thomaz’s army, still engaged from all sides, faltered at the sudden deaths of their defenders’ leaders, while Nekira’s and Moore’s forces pressed relentlessly forward. Althor swung his hammer with a roar, Gabija’s Elves moved like wind through chaos, but the shadow of the Corrupter loomed, bending reality and killing hope in a single gesture.
The Corrupter’s grey eyes flashed again. He snapped his fingers, and the world seemed to bend. Vivi’s and Tivor’s lifeless bodies lifted from the blood-soaked ground, floating unnaturally into the air as if puppets on invisible strings. Crimson rivers streamed from their wounds, coalescing into a dark, swirling vortex that drained into the Corrupter.
His form shimmered, grey-green aura flaring around him as power surged, twisting his shape and intensifying his presence. The battlefield fell momentarily into uneasy stillness, soldiers frozen mid-strike, sparks hanging in the air, the roar of the dragon and clashing armies dimming beneath the pulse of this dark force.
At the center of the fray, Nekira’s own body reacted. His eyes ignited with purple-orange fire, and a shock-wave radiated outward from him, knocking soldiers off their feet, splintering shields, and rippling across the field. His mind became a torrent, images invading with the speed of thought and the weight of memory.
He saw Vivi lying beside a woman, entangled in sheets, their bodies pressed together in love. Then, a baby was cut out from her womb, screaming and wet with blood. Thomaz loomed above, cruel and deranged, dangling the infant by its leg, commanding Vivi with venomous authority: kill the baby, burn his sister’s body.
The vision leapt and flickered. Nekira staggered beneath its force, each image like a lash of fire across his mind, until the crescendo hit him. At the crest of a distant hill, the echo of Vivi’s voice came, clear and sharp:
“This is your home now, Nekonata.”
Time snapped, the battlefield and its chaos dissolving into a singular moment of revelation. Memories, long suppressed and forgotten, cascaded through him. Faces, names, the sense of loss and betrayal—the truth became undeniable. Vivi… was his father.
Nekira’s knees buckled, the roar of armies, the clash of swords, and the screams of dying men all receding into a hollow echo as the weight of that truth pressed into him. His very identity, the core of his being, shifted violently, leaving him teetering between rage, grief, and disbelief.
The battlefield held its breath around him. The Corrupter’s grey-green aura pulsed, oblivious to the revelation that had struck Nekira at the core. Somewhere above, Elqiana’s wings beat, casting shadows across the ground still slick with blood, as if the world itself paused to witness the moment when past and present collided.
Nekira’s fists clenched, purple-orange fire igniting in his eyes. The flames were more than power—they were the surge of memories returning, raw and unfiltered. Faces, voices, and truths long buried clawed their way to the surface. He remembered… everything. The betrayal, the love, the loss—but the names, the familiar warmth of a mother’s voice, the name she had given him, remained just out of reach, a phantom on the edge of consciousness.
And yet, in this single, shattering instant, he understood the truth: the man dying before him—Vivi, struck down by Thomaz—was the father he had sought without knowing it. The legacy he had fought to reclaim, the pieces of himself scattered across years of amnesia and battle, now fit together—but with devastating clarity.
The revelation was silent, invisible to the world, yet it seared through Nekira like molten steel. Every strike, every flash of violence, every moment of memory returned in an unbearable convergence.
Amira’s sharp voice cut into Nekira’s mind, slicing through the haze of memory and grief. He blinked, awareness snapping back, and his eyes caught the cautious movements of enemy soldiers creeping forward, blades raised, uncertain.
With a single fluid motion, Nekira spun on his heel, his sword slicing in a deadly arc. Four soldiers fell at once, their bodies colliding with a wet thud, their lives snuffed out in the space of a heartbeat. Purple-orange energy flared along his body, surging through his veins, illuminating the battlefield as he rose to his feet.
From the walls, Gabija’s eyes widened, sensing the shift in the air. Althor’s jaw tightened; instinct told them something monumental had just occurred. Above, Dorianna gasped atop Elqiana’s back. “Who is that?” she whispered, voice trembling. Tara, sitting in the saddle in front of Dorianna, did not flinch.
“That is Nekira… formerly Nekonata,” she replied, her voice steady.
Nekira began moving through the throng of enemy soldiers, a storm of purple-orange light and lethal precision. Anyone who lunged at him was met with swift, merciless death—blades flashing, bodies falling, blood and dust mingling in a chaotic rhythm that seemed almost like a dance of vengeance.
From within Edena, the Corrupter laughed—low, echoing, and full of malice. The sound rolled across the battlefield, freezing hearts, bending minds—but before anyone could react further, he vanished. Vivi and Tivor’s lifeless bodies thudded to the ground, their magic and life ripped away, leaving only silence in their wake.
Rubian’s scream of “retreat” tore across the battlefield, ragged and furious. He darted toward Thomaz with desperate speed, grabbing the king’s arm. In one coordinated movement, he hurled a grey orb to the ground. It exploded with a deafening bang, engulfing the two of them in a swirl of smoke. When the dust cleared, Rubian and Thomaz were gone, vanishing from the battlefield in an instant.
The battlefield had become a storm of chaos and retreat. Thomaz’s soldiers, shaken by Nekira’s sudden and terrifying power, faltered first, then broke. Screams of command turned into cries of panic as the enemy army stumbled backward, trying to escape Edena’s walls, only to collide with Althor’s hammer-wielding Dwarves and Gabija’s precise, slicing Elves.
Arrows and axes tore through the fleeing ranks. Fireballs from Tara and Dorianna streaked across the sky, scattering soldiers who dared to regroup. The ground shook with the thunder of charge and counter-charge, yet Nekira did not falter, did not slow. His purple-orange aura flared brighter with each step, illuminating the twisted bodies and the falling debris around him.
Soldiers lunged at him in desperate attempts to halt his advance. Nekira cut through them with swift, precise strikes, but there was no malice in his movements, no thrill of slaughter—only purpose. His eyes were fixed, burning with a singular focus: Vivi. The father he had just discovered, the man who now lay lifeless somewhere in the blood-soaked dust of Edena.
Althor swung with brutal authority, hammer smashing into groups of retreating soldiers, driving them into the chaos. Gabija’s Elves struck with deadly arcs, arrows finding gaps in armour as they pushed forward, her melodic voice cutting commands that kept their formations lethal even amidst the panic. Tara and Dorianna flung fire with exacting aim, disrupting the enemy’s momentum and covering Nekira’s path.
Yet through all the carnage, Nekira moved like a force of nature, unyielding, untouchable. His every strike, every movement, was calculated to clear a path to Vivi. Around him, the battlefield burned with destruction, bodies tumbling, shields splintering, screams echoing—but Nekira’s mind was singular, unwavering.
Nekira’s surge of power slowed, the purple-orange aura fading as he finally reached Vivi. The chaos of the battlefield—the screams, the clashing of steel, the fireballs raining around him—blurred into a distant roar. Nothing mattered but the still, lifeless form before him.
He dropped to his knees, cradling Vivi’s body in his arms. His hands shook, gripping him as though sheer force could will life back into the father he had only just discovered. Tears streaked down Nekira’s face, hot and unrelenting, splashing onto Vivi’s cold skin. His chest heaved, and a sob tore from deep within him.
“Father…” he whispered, voice raw, broken, a word laden with grief, memory, and longing. He buried his face against Vivi’s chest, trying to draw warmth, trying to hold onto what had been lost.
Amira landed softly on the walls of the parapet, her eyes scanning the devastation, heart tightening at the sight of so much loss.
Elqiana’s massive form touched down in the courtyard, wings folding slowly as she exhaled, her presence still commanding even in stillness. Tara and Dorianna leapt from her saddle, feet hitting the blood-stained stone with urgency and despair.
Tara ran forward, her chest heaving, only to stop short at the sight of her father, Tivor, lying lifeless. She sank to her knees beside him, hands trembling as she pressed against his chest, searching in vain for a sign of life, her tears spilling freely onto the cold ground.
Dorianna’s body shook uncontrollably, her hands gripping the air as her eyes fell upon the boys, their forms broken and still. Her sobs ripped through the courtyard, a sharp, raw sound that seemed to echo across the battlefield.
Gabija and Althor stood nearby, heads bowed, their expressions a mixture of grief and solemn respect for the fallen, each aware of the cost of the day’s carnage.
Elvina collapsed beside Nekira, her knees buckling as she stared at him holding Vivi, the sheer weight of the moment pressing down. She reached out, placing a trembling hand on his arm, unable to speak, only sharing in the unbearable mix of sorrow, relief, and reverent awe that this one brief moment of reunion had brought amid the ruin.
Chapter 45: Time
The morning broke pale and bitter over Edena. Across the plain, ten thousand soldiers advanced in grim ranks, their armour clattering like rolling thunder. From the walls, the defenders watched, silent, their breaths white in the cold.
Rubian lifted one hand. The drums of war answered.
The first waves met Vivi’s trap. Trenches disguised with soil gave way under marching boots, men impaled on hidden spikes. Oil caught fire, flames racing in sudden rivers of light. Smoke choked the air as soldiers screamed, their bodies piling at the choke point. Vivi’s three thousand braced behind the carnage, shields locked, spears angled like the teeth of some ancient beast.
Through the chaos came Thomaz.
He advanced like a storm front, deliberate and unstoppable. His scarred face, split by the jagged claw marks running from brow to chin, seemed carved for this moment: a grotesque mask of authority and rage. Wherever soldiers lagged before him, he shoved them aside, struck them down, or cut them where they stood. None dared stand in his path for long.
“VIVI!” he roared, voice carrying above the screams, above the clash of steel. “Come out and face me, coward! You think you can steal my throne? You think Edena is yours? It belongs to me. All of it belongs to me!”
He hacked down one of his own men who stumbled, blood spraying across his armour, and the troops before him scrambled faster to clear a path. His advance was a tide of fear as much as steel. Arrows hissed from the walls, a dozen shafts striking around him, one grazing his arm. He barely flinched, his voice rising even louder.
“You are nothing, Vivi! A shadow! A pretender! I will burn this city to ash before I let you take what is mine!”
On the parapets, Elvina steadied her archers with her own unshaking tone. “Loose!” she commanded, and black volleys rained down into the packed enemy ranks. Men fell in heaps, but Thomaz’s slow, grinding push never stopped. His presence spread panic, his scarred visage like a spector stalking through smoke and flame.
At the far flank, Rubian whispered in the ancient tongue, each word heavy as stone. The walls trembled, cracks spider-webbing outward, defenders clutching at the battlements. Dust fell like ash across Edena. For a heartbeat, it seemed the fortress itself might collapse.
But the magic faltered. The resonance broke. The cracks stilled. The walls endured.
Rubian’s face remained unreadable, but beneath his calm calculation a thin edge of frustration gleamed. He signalled, and ladders rose. If he could not bring the walls down, he would take them with his own hands. Cloak drawn tight, he began to climb, ignoring the rain of arrows striking the men beside him.
Below, Vivi stood unyielding among his soldiers, shield arm aching, throat raw from commands. Smoke burned his lungs, but his eyes never left Thomaz. Across the battlefield, Thomaz’s gaze found his, the scarred king’s smile twisting in cruel triumph.
Step by step, Thomaz pressed closer, dragging the weight of an army behind him. Fire roared, arrows fell, the walls shook with the struggle. Edena still stood, but the tide was rising, and all could feel the shadow of its fall creeping nearer.
The choke point burned with smoke and blood. Vivi’s men stood shoulder to shoulder, shields locked tight, their formation battered but unbroken. Spears thrust with mechanical rhythm, piercing through any who pressed too close. For every defender that fell, another stepped forward to close the gap.
Thomaz loomed just beyond, his scarred face twisted in fury. His soldiers clogged the choke point, slowing his advance. He snarled, hacked one down, then shoved another into the flames. None were spared his wrath—not enemy, not ally. Wherever he walked, blood followed. His voice boomed above the din.
“Cowards! Move or die! I will cut down every one of you before I let a single step of Edena slip from my grasp!”
The shield wall trembled under the pressure but did not break. Thomaz’s dark eyes, glinting with a fevered will, locked again on Vivi across the carnage. His path was choked, yet his presence alone made the defenders tighten their grips, knowing he would not stop until their commander’s blood lay on his blade.
High above the clash, Rubian’s patience had worn thin. The walls had resisted his words of unmaking, so he had chosen another path. His climb was relentless, methodical, each movement as precise as the man himself. Now he stood upon Edena’s parapet, twin short swords gleaming like fangs.
Archers cried out as he moved among them, blades flashing, bodies falling. Elvina’s orders wavered as Rubian cut through her lines, the balance of the wall tipping into chaos.
Then the sky darkened with a shadow.
A great raven dove from the clouds, wings stretched wide. With a deafening caw it burst into a cloud of green smoke, feathers scattering like ash. From the smoke stepped Tivor, eyes glinting, cloak rippling with arcane energy.
Rubian turned, his cold face unflinching at the sudden apparition. For the first time this day, a flicker of challenge sparked in his eyes. He spread his stance and raised his blades.
Tivor’s voice rang out in the ancient language, deep and resonant, words crackling with power. Shards of ice swirled into a shield before him, glistening with frost. Flames bloomed in his hands, twisting into roiling spheres of fire.
The two men faced each other on the parapet, battle raging beneath them, the smoke and arrows and screams all falling away into silence around their meeting. Rubian lifted his blades in grim salute. Tivor’s fireballs blazed brighter, the air around him warping with heat.
On Edena’s walls, sparks flew as Rubian’s twin blades carved arcs of silver through the smoke. Tivor’s ice shield splintered under each strike, shards bursting like shattered glass across the parapet. Fireballs hissed from Tivor’s hands, streaking green through the air, exploding against steel with deafening cracks. Rubian advanced step by step, relentless, his face a mask of cold precision, his blades flashing like fangs.
Tivor met him with fluid grace, retreating and countering, each word of the ancient tongue birthing another weapon, walls of frost that crumbled under Rubian’s assault, bursts of flame that forced him back. Then Tivor’s hand blazed emerald, and he hurled a ball of green fire. It struck Rubian’s cloak, igniting it in an eerie blaze that licked hungrily at the dark fabric.
Rubian shed the flaming cloth without breaking stride, his eyes glinting with something close to amusement as the fire consumed it. He twirled his blades and lunged forward, just as Elvina’s voice rose above the chaos.
From her hand she hurled her ruby-colored sword. It spun through the smoke like a shard of sunlight, caught perfectly in Tivor’s grip. Power flared, crimson fire dancing along its edge.
Tivor leapt forward with renewed fury. He fell upon Rubian in a flurry of strikes—slashes, thrusts, spinning arcs that painted the air in red light. The parapet rang with steel on steel as Rubian’s short swords moved like water, parrying every blow, answering each strike with lethal precision. Sparks rained around them, the rhythm of their duel as fierce as the war below.
And below, Thomaz had reached his quarry.
The deranged king pushed through his own dead and dying men, scarred face glistening with sweat and blood. His eyes burned with a dark light as he stood before Vivi at last.
Vivi tore his cloak free and cast it aside. In his right hand gleamed a sword, plain but steady; in his left, his staff crowned with a sunstone that caught the morning light and turned it into fire. He planted his feet, steady as the wall behind him, his voice carrying through the smoke.
“Here I am, Thomaz. In the flesh… It's been a long time, King.”
Thomaz smiled, the three clawed scar twisting into a grotesque crescent. “Everything is mine. You’ll die knowing it.”
The two men squared off, the world shrinking to their circle of fire and steel.
And then, from the hills beyond Edena, the sound of a trumpet split the air. Deep, sonorous, proud, it was the call of the Dwarves. Their war horn echoed across the plain, and the ground seemed to tremble with the rhythm of their march.
Moments later, another horn answered. Higher, melodic, sharp as silver. The Elves had come as well. Their voices carried on the wind like a song of judgement.
Both armies, locked in their struggle, faltered for a heartbeat, eyes turning toward the horizon. Allies had come. The battle for Edena was no longer just theirs—it was the opening of a war that would decide the fate of kingdoms.
On Edena’s parapet, Tivor and Rubian’s duel raged. Steel rang like a cracked bell as Rubian’s twin short swords battered Tivor’s ruby blade, parries and counterstrikes sparking with every furious exchange. Ice shields shattered to shards, fireballs exploded against steel, scorching the stones beneath their boots. Rubian pressed forward with cold determination, every movement precise and lethal; Tivor answered with the ancient tongue, the air alive with frost and flame, his fury spilling into every strike.
Rubian pressed low, slashing at Tivor’s legs; Tivor spun, blade catching both swords with a screech, fire trailing through the smoke. Rubian lunged again, but Tivor’s free hand ignited another green fireball, forcing him back with a blast that set the air quivering with heat.
Below, Vivi faced Thomaz. The deranged king’s scarred face split into a smile that was more a wound than an expression, his voice booming over the battlefield.
“You will kneel, Vivi! The crown is mine, Edena is mine, all of this is mine!”
Vivi’s cloak lay in the dirt, his staff glowing with sunfire in his left hand, his sword steady in his right. His answer was calm, but it cut deeper than steel.
“Then the world will remember me standing.”
Their weapons clashed, sparks raining as steel met staff. Vivi’s defence was precise, Thomaz’s offence relentless, every blow hammering forward like the will of a man who believed himself destined to rule.
And then the horns sounded.
A deep, thunderous blast shook the hills, rolling across the plain. Out of the haze stormed the Dwarves, fifteen hundred strong, armoured in steel that gleamed like molten rock, axes and hammers raised high. At their head marched King Althor, his warhammer gleaming in both hands, his beard braided with silver rings that flashed in the firelight. His voice rose with the horn’s echo, and the Dwarves struck the rear of Thomaz’s host like a wall of iron came alive.
Before the enemy could recover, another horn answered—a clear, melodic note that carried like silver through smoke and blood. Out of the mists came the Elves, another fifteen hundred, their ranks swift and sharp. At their head strode Queen Gabija, her golden hair catching the dawn light, her curved blade singing with each step. She led her warriors in a storm of arrows and steel, their advance cutting through the enemy with fluid, merciless grace.
The plain erupted in chaos. Thomaz’s army, caught between Edena’s walls and the fury of Dwarf and Elf, reeled in panic. Men screamed as the Dwarves smashed into them, their hammers breaking shields like kindling. Elven arrows rained death in unbroken volleys, their soldiers following with blades that flashed like lightning.
But still, numbers told the truth. The defenders, now swollen to nearly seven thousand with their allies, remained outnumbered by Thomaz’s host. Both sides bled heavily. The Dwarves, though unbreakable, fell in heaps before sheer numbers. The Elves carved their way into the enemy lines, but each victory left their ranks thinner.
On the wall, Elvina’s archers cheered as they loosed fresh volleys, hope rekindled in their veins. On the parapet, Tivor pressed his assault with the ruby sword blazing, Rubian parrying every furious strike. Below, Vivi and Thomaz crashed together again, their duel at the heart of the storm.
The battle for Edena spiralled into a storm of steel and fire.
On the ground, Vivi met Thomaz’s assault with grim resolve. The deranged king came at him like a thunderhead, his sword cleaving down in heavy, brutal arcs. Vivi’s staff, glowing with the sunstone’s fire, turned aside the worst of the blows while his sword parried and deflected the rest. Sparks rained from each impact, the clangour echoing like a bell tolling doom.
Then, with a surge of focus, Vivi struck back. His sword slipped past Thomaz’s guard, cutting across the king’s forearm. Another slash drew blood from his thigh. A third scored his shoulder. Thomaz staggered back, crimson running down his armour—then threw back his head and laughed, the scar across his face twisting into a grotesque mask of triumph.
“Is that all you’ve got, thief?” he spat, voice raw. “A few scratches? I’ll peel your skin from your bones and wear it as a cloak!”
He lunged again, words as sharp as his blade, insults growing fouler with every strike. Vivi braced, each block rattling through his arms, each parry a step deeper into exhaustion.
Above them, Tivor and Rubian’s duel raged across the parapet. The ruby blade burned arcs of crimson as Tivor pressed his advantage, flames and frost lashing the air. Rubian’s short swords deflected each strike, his movements honed to merciless precision. They circled, clashed, locked steel against steel, their faces spattered with ash and blood.
Neither yielded. Neither slowed.
And then—betrayed by the chaos—they both slipped. Blood pooled on the parapet stones, slick and treacherous. Tivor’s boot skidded; Rubian’s footing gave way. Locked together in their fury, they toppled from the wall. They hit the ground hard, steel clattering, dust and gore rising around them.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield seemed to draw breath.
Then the sky darkened.
A shadow vast and terrible swept across the plain. Wings beat the air like thunder, scattering smoke. From the clouds descended Elqiana, the great white opal dragon, her scales gleaming like living pearl, her wings stretching wide enough to swallow the sun. On her back sat Tarasque, eyes burning with battle-fire, and behind her Dorianna, gripping the saddle with grim determination. Perched at the dragon’s head, little Snowy raised her arms like a queen on her throne.
As Elqiana swooped lower, Snowy’s form shimmered. She stood upright on the dragon’s skull, balanced effortlessly despite the gale of wings. With a mischievous grin, she waved coyly at Tara and Dorianna, as if mocking the horror below. Then, without hesitation, she dove—hurling herself from Elqiana’s head into the throng of soldiers below, vanishing into the chaos with a laugh.
Elqiana roared, the sound tearing the battlefield in two. It was a sound of iron and fury, loud enough to rattle bones, harsh enough to drown the clash of armies. Flames licked at the corners of her maw, the air quivering with her power.
On the ground, Thomaz stumbled mid-swing, his eyes widening at the sight of the dragon descending. Rubian, dragging himself to his feet, spat blood into the dirt. Both men cursed, their voices hoarse and venomous, as they looked upon the new terror falling into their war.
The battle raged on, chaos thick and choking, when King Althor stepped forward from the ranks of the Dwarves. His warhammer gleamed like molten metal in the smoke, each swing precise and devastating. With a roar that shook the air, he bellowed commands, calling the Dwarves’ attention back to discipline and fury.
“Forward! Crush them! Let them taste steel and stone!”
The Dwarves responded instantly, axes and hammers swinging with renewed vigour. Each step of Althor’s hammer shattered shields and sent soldiers sprawling. Where panic had begun to take root among his ranks, his presence drove fear into the hearts of the enemy. Each Dwarf fought not just for the city but for the king who led them with unshakeable determination.
At the same time, high above the battlefield, Queen Gabija lifted her voice over the din, melodic and commanding. Her blade glittered with sunlight as she guided her Elves, their arrows now raining with deadly precision.
“Strike true! Let no enemy stand before Edena!”
The Elves surged, weaving between smoke and fire, cutting down enemy soldiers with fluid, almost effortless grace. Gabija’s calm authority steadied them even when the enemy counterattacked; she moved through their ranks like a force of nature, parrying, thrusting, spurring her warriors onward with words and deeds.
Below, the defenders began to rally, the shield wall pressing harder against Thomaz’s relentless tide, inspired by Althor and Gabija’s leadership. Though outnumbered, their morale surged, each blow struck with renewed determination.
Above the battlefield, Elqiana hovered like a pearl in the storm of smoke and blood. Her massive wings beat without pause, yet she did not descend to attack. The dragon’s gaze swept the throng below; every fire blast risked hitting friend as well as foe. She restrained herself, each beat of her wings sending gusts that scattered ash and arrows, warning soldiers and enemies alike of her presence without harm.
Tara perched on her back, white flames blazing in her hands, hurled spheres of fire toward Thomaz’s army. Each impact erupted into controlled bursts, singing armour and scattering groups of soldiers without risking their allies. Even small fires flared in precise arcs, tipping the balance in tight skirmishes.
Behind her, Dorianna, though not fully healed, joined in. Yellow fireballs spun from her hands, trailing sparks across the battlefield. Her aim was measured, calculated, each orb disrupting enemy formations, forcing the tide to bend and giving the defenders precious breathing space.
The battlefield had become a maelstrom of coordinated fury. On the ground, Vivi parried Thomaz’s brutal strikes; the Dwarves hammered from behind; the Elves struck with lethal grace; fireballs arced from above. Sparks, blood, and flame intermingled, and yet amidst the chaos, the individual heroics—Althor smashing through enemy ranks, Gabija weaving with deadly elegance, Tara and Dorianna shaping the battlefield from above—gave the defenders a renewed edge.
Even with seven thousand against ten thousand, the defenders held. The tide had shifted, just enough to give hope that perhaps, with courage and strategy, Edena might yet withstand the storm.
On the ground, the clash between Vivi and Thomaz burned hotter than the surrounding chaos. Thomaz’s scarred face was a mask of cruel intent, his eyes fixed solely on the man who dared to defy him. Every swing of his sword was measured, calculated, yet brutal—a relentless tide aimed to crush Vivi’s defences.
Vivi met each strike with the sunstone-tipped staff and sword in tandem, parrying, twisting, striking back wherever an opening appeared. Sparks flew as steel clanged against steel, the sound ringing above the din of battle. Thomaz cursed, laughed, and hurled venomous insults, each more cutting than the last, yet never losing focus on his quarry.
Nearby, Rubian and Tivor had risen from the blood-slick ground, their robes and armour stained with the aftermath of their fall. They circled each other warily, breathing hard but unyielding. Every movement was precise, eyes locked, muscles coiled like springs. Then, in a simultaneous burst, they lunged again, blades flashing and spells igniting around them. Ice and fire met steel in sparks and arcs of destruction, the earth beneath them scarred and smoking.
Above the battlefield, the sky shivered. A bolt of purple-orange lightning stabbed through the clouds, twisting in midair before exploding with a deafening boom that shook soldiers off their feet. All eyes lifted, and there, on the crest of a hill just beyond the field, stood Nekira. His presence radiated authority and danger, and at his side, Captain Jason Moore led an army of two thousand, disciplined and ready.
The defenders on the walls and in the field instinctively stiffened at the sight, while the enemy faltered for a heartbeat, unsure how to respond to this new arrival. From far above, hidden in the sky, Amira observed silently, her form invisible to both armies, waiting for the precise moment to intervene.
Nekira’s bolt had served its purpose: a signal of arrival, a herald of the next turn in the war. Beneath it, the battle continued to rage—Vivi and Thomaz locked in their deadly duel, Rubian and Tivor entwined in magical steel combat, and the defenders, spurred by Althor and Gabija, fought like wolves against overwhelming odds.
The battlefield had shifted again, the stakes escalating with each pulse of magic, the clash of blades, and the roar of armies. All forces now knew that the endgame for Edena was no longer just a contest of numbers, but of heroes, wills, and the raw edge of destiny itself.
The horizon erupted as Nekira’s army surged forward, two thousand disciplined soldiers pounding into Thomaz’s rear. The ground trembled under their advance. King Althor roared a battle cry, swinging his hammer, and the Dwarves charged alongside, axes smashing into Thomaz’s flanks. Queen Gabija led her Elves in a graceful, deadly arc, arrows cutting through the chaos with precision. Fireballs from Tara and Dorianna streaked through smoke and dust, disrupting enemy ranks and forcing Thomaz’s soldiers to scatter.
Yet even amidst the onslaught, Thomaz did not waver. His eyes never left Vivi. His sword moved with a terrible, deliberate rhythm, each strike meant to kill, to punish, to assert his claim over all he believed was his. Vivi parried and blocked, sunstone staff and sword a shield of light against the king’s fury. Sparks flew as steel struck steel, the air thick with smoke, blood, and the smell of charred oil.
Above them, Tivor and Rubian’s battle continued in relentless cycles. Sparks flew from Tivor’s ruby sword, fire and ice clashing against Rubian’s twin blades. Each strike was a symphony of precision and rage, parries and counters echoing the violence below. They moved in perfect, deadly rhythm, circling one another across the scorched ground.
Then, from the shadows behind the chaos, a chill swept the battlefield. A figure emerged, dark and sudden—the Corrupter. His grey eyes glinted with malice, and the world seemed to constrict around him. With a snap of his fingers, a wave of unnatural force cut through the combatants.
Vivi froze mid-parry, staff and sword suspended in the air, eyes wide as though the world had turned to stone. Thomaz’s grin widened, cruel and unhinged. With a single, fluid motion, he plunged his sword straight through Vivi’s heart. Vivi gasped once, a flash of defiance in his eyes, then fell, lifeless to the blood-soaked earth.
Tivor’s scream pierced the air as he turned, distracted, calling out for his brother. His focus shattered. Rubian saw the opening, the flash of red on Tivor’s neck, and did not hesitate. His blade arced with lethal precision, slicing through the air and severing Tivor’s spine. Tivor fell with a cry of anguish, his magic sputtering, the ruby sword clattering to the ground beside him.
The battlefield seemed to reel. Thomaz’s army, still engaged from all sides, faltered at the sudden deaths of their defenders’ leaders, while Nekira’s and Moore’s forces pressed relentlessly forward. Althor swung his hammer with a roar, Gabija’s Elves moved like wind through chaos, but the shadow of the Corrupter loomed, bending reality and killing hope in a single gesture.
The Corrupter’s grey eyes flashed again. He snapped his fingers, and the world seemed to bend. Vivi’s and Tivor’s lifeless bodies lifted from the blood-soaked ground, floating unnaturally into the air as if puppets on invisible strings. Crimson rivers streamed from their wounds, coalescing into a dark, swirling vortex that drained into the Corrupter.
His form shimmered, grey-green aura flaring around him as power surged, twisting his shape and intensifying his presence. The battlefield fell momentarily into uneasy stillness, soldiers frozen mid-strike, sparks hanging in the air, the roar of the dragon and clashing armies dimming beneath the pulse of this dark force.
At the center of the fray, Nekira’s own body reacted. His eyes ignited with purple-orange fire, and a shock-wave radiated outward from him, knocking soldiers off their feet, splintering shields, and rippling across the field. His mind became a torrent, images invading with the speed of thought and the weight of memory.
He saw Vivi lying beside a woman, entangled in sheets, their bodies pressed together in love. Then, a baby was cut out from her womb, screaming and wet with blood. Thomaz loomed above, cruel and deranged, dangling the infant by its leg, commanding Vivi with venomous authority: kill the baby, burn his sister’s body.
The vision leapt and flickered. Nekira staggered beneath its force, each image like a lash of fire across his mind, until the crescendo hit him. At the crest of a distant hill, the echo of Vivi’s voice came, clear and sharp:
“This is your home now, Nekonata.”
Time snapped, the battlefield and its chaos dissolving into a singular moment of revelation. Memories, long suppressed and forgotten, cascaded through him. Faces, names, the sense of loss and betrayal—the truth became undeniable. Vivi… was his father.
Nekira’s knees buckled, the roar of armies, the clash of swords, and the screams of dying men all receding into a hollow echo as the weight of that truth pressed into him. His very identity, the core of his being, shifted violently, leaving him teetering between rage, grief, and disbelief.
The battlefield held its breath around him. The Corrupter’s grey-green aura pulsed, oblivious to the revelation that had struck Nekira at the core. Somewhere above, Elqiana’s wings beat, casting shadows across the ground still slick with blood, as if the world itself paused to witness the moment when past and present collided.
Nekira’s fists clenched, purple-orange fire igniting in his eyes. The flames were more than power—they were the surge of memories returning, raw and unfiltered. Faces, voices, and truths long buried clawed their way to the surface. He remembered… everything. The betrayal, the love, the loss—but the names, the familiar warmth of a mother’s voice, the name she had given him, remained just out of reach, a phantom on the edge of consciousness.
And yet, in this single, shattering instant, he understood the truth: the man dying before him—Vivi, struck down by Thomaz—was the father he had sought without knowing it. The legacy he had fought to reclaim, the pieces of himself scattered across years of amnesia and battle, now fit together—but with devastating clarity.
The revelation was silent, invisible to the world, yet it seared through Nekira like molten steel. Every strike, every flash of violence, every moment of memory returned in an unbearable convergence.
Amira’s sharp voice cut into Nekira’s mind, slicing through the haze of memory and grief. He blinked, awareness snapping back, and his eyes caught the cautious movements of enemy soldiers creeping forward, blades raised, uncertain.
With a single fluid motion, Nekira spun on his heel, his sword slicing in a deadly arc. Four soldiers fell at once, their bodies colliding with a wet thud, their lives snuffed out in the space of a heartbeat. Purple-orange energy flared along his body, surging through his veins, illuminating the battlefield as he rose to his feet.
From the walls, Gabija’s eyes widened, sensing the shift in the air. Althor’s jaw tightened; instinct told them something monumental had just occurred. Above, Dorianna gasped atop Elqiana’s back. “Who is that?” she whispered, voice trembling. Tara, sitting in the saddle in front of Dorianna, did not flinch.
“That is Nekira… formerly Nekonata,” she replied, her voice steady.
Nekira began moving through the throng of enemy soldiers, a storm of purple-orange light and lethal precision. Anyone who lunged at him was met with swift, merciless death—blades flashing, bodies falling, blood and dust mingling in a chaotic rhythm that seemed almost like a dance of vengeance.
From within Edena, the Corrupter laughed—low, echoing, and full of malice. The sound rolled across the battlefield, freezing hearts, bending minds—but before anyone could react further, he vanished. Vivi and Tivor’s lifeless bodies thudded to the ground, their magic and life ripped away, leaving only silence in their wake.
Rubian’s scream of “retreat” tore across the battlefield, ragged and furious. He darted toward Thomaz with desperate speed, grabbing the king’s arm. In one coordinated movement, he hurled a grey orb to the ground. It exploded with a deafening bang, engulfing the two of them in a swirl of smoke. When the dust cleared, Rubian and Thomaz were gone, vanishing from the battlefield in an instant.
The battlefield had become a storm of chaos and retreat. Thomaz’s soldiers, shaken by Nekira’s sudden and terrifying power, faltered first, then broke. Screams of command turned into cries of panic as the enemy army stumbled backward, trying to escape Edena’s walls, only to collide with Althor’s hammer-wielding Dwarves and Gabija’s precise, slicing Elves.
Arrows and axes tore through the fleeing ranks. Fireballs from Tara and Dorianna streaked across the sky, scattering soldiers who dared to regroup. The ground shook with the thunder of charge and counter-charge, yet Nekira did not falter, did not slow. His purple-orange aura flared brighter with each step, illuminating the twisted bodies and the falling debris around him.
Soldiers lunged at him in desperate attempts to halt his advance. Nekira cut through them with swift, precise strikes, but there was no malice in his movements, no thrill of slaughter—only purpose. His eyes were fixed, burning with a singular focus: Vivi. The father he had just discovered, the man who now lay lifeless somewhere in the blood-soaked dust of Edena.
Althor swung with brutal authority, hammer smashing into groups of retreating soldiers, driving them into the chaos. Gabija’s Elves struck with deadly arcs, arrows finding gaps in armour as they pushed forward, her melodic voice cutting commands that kept their formations lethal even amidst the panic. Tara and Dorianna flung fire with exacting aim, disrupting the enemy’s momentum and covering Nekira’s path.
Yet through all the carnage, Nekira moved like a force of nature, unyielding, untouchable. His every strike, every movement, was calculated to clear a path to Vivi. Around him, the battlefield burned with destruction, bodies tumbling, shields splintering, screams echoing—but Nekira’s mind was singular, unwavering.
Nekira’s surge of power slowed, the purple-orange aura fading as he finally reached Vivi. The chaos of the battlefield—the screams, the clashing of steel, the fireballs raining around him—blurred into a distant roar. Nothing mattered but the still, lifeless form before him.
He dropped to his knees, cradling Vivi’s body in his arms. His hands shook, gripping him as though sheer force could will life back into the father he had only just discovered. Tears streaked down Nekira’s face, hot and unrelenting, splashing onto Vivi’s cold skin. His chest heaved, and a sob tore from deep within him.
“Father…” he whispered, voice raw, broken, a word laden with grief, memory, and longing. He buried his face against Vivi’s chest, trying to draw warmth, trying to hold onto what had been lost.
Amira landed softly on the walls of the parapet, her eyes scanning the devastation, heart tightening at the sight of so much loss.
Elqiana’s massive form touched down in the courtyard, wings folding slowly as she exhaled, her presence still commanding even in stillness. Tara and Dorianna leapt from her saddle, feet hitting the blood-stained stone with urgency and despair.
Tara ran forward, her chest heaving, only to stop short at the sight of her father, Tivor, lying lifeless. She sank to her knees beside him, hands trembling as she pressed against his chest, searching in vain for a sign of life, her tears spilling freely onto the cold ground.
Dorianna’s body shook uncontrollably, her hands gripping the air as her eyes fell upon the boys, their forms broken and still. Her sobs ripped through the courtyard, a sharp, raw sound that seemed to echo across the battlefield.
Gabija and Althor stood nearby, heads bowed, their expressions a mixture of grief and solemn respect for the fallen, each aware of the cost of the day’s carnage.
Elvina collapsed beside Nekira, her knees buckling as she stared at him holding Vivi, the sheer weight of the moment pressing down. She reached out, placing a trembling hand on his arm, unable to speak, only sharing in the unbearable mix of sorrow, relief, and reverent awe that this one brief moment of reunion had brought amid the ruin.
The Journey, Book 2: Chapter 46
Chapter 46: Sorrow The battlefield had gone quiet. Smoke curled in the air, carrying the bitter tang of ash and iron. Vivi and Tivor lay still among the fallen. With slow, deliberate steps, the soldiers moved forward. Their shields clattered softly as they lowered them to the ground, then...
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