Issac’s day had started well enough, or so he thought.

The morning sun gleamed off the snow, and his squad had been making steady progress through the mountain pass. They were high up, where the cold turned breath to mist and each step crunched through a thick layer of frost. Issac had even caught a glimpse of sunlight on the valley below.

As days went, this one was shaping up to be decent.

Then, the first beam of orange light streaked down from nowhere, hitting the snow just inches from his feet.

Instantly, the world exploded into a searing cloud of hissing steam, blinding him. 

He rolled to the side instinctively, his back scraping along the frozen ground as he scrambled for any weapon within reach. 

His spear was gone, thrown at some distant, invisible target in a fit of hopeless fury. Now, he had nothing to defend himself with.

A shadow loomed in the fog, large and shifting, darting just beyond sight. He could barely make it out through the mist.

“They’re moving too fast,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. 

His eyes scanned for the source of the blast, but all he saw was the dark, swirling cloud of dust and snow that had risen from the ground. 

He could feel his heartbeat hammering in his chest, echoing the distant roars he could barely hear through the hissing steam.

Suddenly, Issac heard a comrade yell—a desperate scream that abruptly cut off with a terrible, shivering howl. 

The sound sent chills down his spine, mingling with the heat that pulsed from the flames ahead. The acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the air, and he caught a glimpse of flames through the snow-laden fog. 

It was then that he recognized the low, hissing sound, the rush of air, and the roar of something massive shifting through the air.

Wyvrjns.

They weren’t like the ones in stories. 

These creatures were smart, coordinated. They knew how to use the snow and fog, how to make themselves invisible before striking. 

They had stirred up the clouds with their wings, creating this trap, and were using their fire to flush out anything that moved. Issac gritted his teeth, feeling the heat radiate toward him, making his skin prickle with pain.

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One part of him wanted to give up, to just step into the fire and end it. It would be quick, he told himself. The rebellion was lost, crushed beneath the weight of an empire that cared nothing for them. 

The Messiah—their symbol of hope and change—was as good as doomed. 

Everything they had fought for, all the blood spilled and lives sacrificed, was for nothing. 

All the visions, promises, and chants he’d once believed with his whole being now felt hollow, like smoke drifting through his fingers.

He looked around, catching sight of a fallen comrade’s spear lying in the snow. 

Half-buried in ash and frost, the wooden haft was charred from the heat, but still whole. He lunged for it, slipping on the slushy, trampled snow as he dragged the spear to his side. 

The weight was comforting in his hands, even though he knew it would be useless against creatures so vast and powerful.

The Wyvrjns’ shadows circled in the fog, almost leisurely, as if savouring the terror they were causing. 

He could just make out the flapping of wings, the blur of massive shapes moving gracefully within the smoke.

“Get it together,” he whispered to himself, jaw clenched. His comrades needed him. 

The fire’s heat was inching closer, turning snow into rivers of steam and filling the air with blistering humidity. 

Each breath felt heavier than the last, like he was drawing flames into his lungs.

He scanned the ground, looking for any others left alive in the chaos. 

His fellow rebels were scattered, some lying motionless, others frantically trying to evade the fire’s reach. His fingers gripped the spear so tightly his knuckles turned white. 

It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough against these beasts.

A hiss split the air, loud enough to cut through the roar of the flames. 

Issac froze, glancing up just in time to see a massive Wyvrjn’s head looming through the fog, its eyes glowing like embers. 

It let out a bellowing roar, wings beating hard enough to send a blast of searing wind towards him. He staggered, shielding his face as the hot air clawed at his skin.

The creature opened its mouth, a dim orange glow growing brighter in its throat. Issac didn’t hesitate. 

He thrust the spear forward with every ounce of strength he had, aiming for the creature’s eye.

The spear struck true, jamming into the Wyvrjn’s scaled brow with a sickening crunch. 

It recoiled, screeching in pain, and a fresh wave of heat washed over him. But the spear barely scratched its hide. The creature twisted, flinging the weapon aside like a twig.

Issac staggered back, gasping, and looked desperately for cover. He couldn’t fight these things. None of them could.

“PUSH THE ENERGY AWAY FROM US!” Issac’s voice cracked through the chaos as he called to his fellow manipulators. 

They had trained for years together, since even longer than he could remember. 

The flames closed in, searing through the swirling snow as his mind raced. He darted around, forcing every ounce of his strength to repel the fire and at least one of of the wywrjn’s energy. 

Every breath felt like a futile gasp, each move a desperate bid for survival.

But his life wasn’t the priority. 

It had never been. Not since he’d pledged himself to the Messiah. Whatever it took, he’d fight on—to the last breath—for him.