“On that day, Cosmos’s cries rang throughout the celestial heavens. Her despair-wrought tears flooded every corner of the universe, and the Stars who once mocked her existence became filled with fear at the sight of her rage. Death had never been a possibility for her kind, but humanity was different. Her beloved laid lifeless within her hands, and as she caressed its sunken face, a singular wish passed through her mournful lips. With it, humanity’s fate was sealed.”

The Nebulas

———

Nokron

It’s getting worse. That wretched feeling of unease is getting worse.

Nokron has shut himself within the confines of his laboratory. It has only been a day since his demonstration, but not even the vapor is enough to calm his troubled mind. Time is running out, but why? How? What is coming? He does not know. Unknown, everything is unknown.

Working in the lab has always helped to calm down the side effects, it is his one true passion, but not even his work is enough to soothe his mind. The noxious-filled beakers that once caressed his tender heart now mock him so. They mock his inability. His weakness. His fear. No matter how many toxins he attempts to synthesize, they all return to void. Failures.

Terror consumes his entire being as the shadows begin to whirl and twirl around him—everything coalescing into a terrible swirl. Insanity overtakes him, and images of dark tendrils lurk in the corners of his eyes, lashing and grasping at his body. It’s painful, so painful.

But it is just what he needs to return to reality.

“Instinct. It’s warning me,” he gasps. “This is no mere bout of insanity. No…this is a prognostication. A warning, conjured by machinations beyond human comprehension.”

Nokron bursts open the lab door and hurries towards the fortress’s command room. He cannot use the vapor when these moments of sanity are few and far between; he must hurry, and fast. He has never been one to rely on instinct’s irrational call, but never in his life has he ever felt such abject terror. The end is coming for him, the Stars decree it, but curse their name if they believe him to accept this fate. No, he will prolong his time just as he has done time and time again.

He kicks the entrance to the command center and darts towards the large map in the middle of the room detailing the surrounding area. The other soldiers are silent before him; they know better now, and they proceed with their duties all the while attempting to ignore the manic presence behind them.

Nokron studies the map and directs his gaze towards the forest. This feeling of unease isn’t one of betrayal, so Xeros is unlikely to be the cause, but rather of mass carnage, of blood and flesh being ripped asunder. Someone, or something, is going to assault the fortress. But just what? What could possibly break through a stronghold of this size and magnitude? It would take an entire army to storm the gates.

An army…

“You,” Nokron rasps to an unsuspecting officer.

”Ah, yes commander. What can I do for you?” they stammer.

“Tell me, has Xeros sent word of any movements made by the Polus?”

“No sir. The Grand General should still be in The Overlord’s domain at the moment.”

“Has it been two months since he’s departed…?” Nokron ponders. “Yes, I suppose that is correct. Two months…ample time for a large force to be deployed.”

Although Xeros believes Polus to be crippled, the specter-like commander has other thoughts. Irrational thoughts they are, completely and wholly unrealistic, but just what if? What if these are no mere musings, but rather his inevitable future?

Logically, The Magnus Murus is a terrible location to mount an assault against. Not only is it far away from the front lines, isolated in this arid region devoid of civilization, but the surrounding land and terrain would paralyze even the most hardened legion. Vast mountains; steep precipices; there is simply no safe route for The Polus to traverse through except perhaps by air, but The Seraph are not large enough in number to successfully invade a structure of this size and magnitude.

But rationality holds no dominion here. If he is wrong, then so be it. However, something must be done if only to pacify this dreadful unease festering deep within.

“Send a recon expedition through-”

Xeros is unable to finish the order; a frantic soldier suddenly barges into the room—eyes panicking, breath gasping—and frantically cries out for all to hear.

“Report! Urgent report! Scouts have identified multiple figures in the distance approaching The Magnus Murus!”

“What!? Just how many?” an officer barks.

“The exact amount is unknown, but it appears to be a force numbering in the tens of thousands. They are quickly advancing, and judging by their current pace, they will arrive at the fortress in about thirty minutes.”

So it is too late. It is a bitter feeling, in a way, having one's fear manifest into reality, but at the same time it is a relief that his paranoia is not a product of insanity; he is not completely mad just yet.

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“By the Stars above…” another mutters. “Do we have visuals on their emblems?”

“Oh screw off, just who else could it be?” a senior official exasperates. “It has to be the Polus.”

A loud smash suddenly startles the room. Remnants of a demolished table lie scattered on the floor, and Nokron leers at the others with his piercing-red gaze.

“Calm down,” he rasps. “There is still time. Gather the soldiers; activate the anti-air defenses; and prepare the Elysian Ray.”

“What magnitude, sir?”

”Maximum.”

“…I-It shall be done.”

It will be unfortunate to lose such a large number of magi, but they are worth more as fuel than alive. Nokron must not spare a single weapon in their arsenal—no matter what sacrifices must be made—or else this grand epoch of his shall finally come to an end. No, there is still so much more that awaits him in the morrow.

“And what will you do, sir?” an attendant asks.

“Hmm…perhaps I should take to the field personally. This fortress has decayed my psyche long enough. I desire for more potent agony.”

“Then I shall gather your apparatuses at once.”

“See to it. I shall be observing the field from above until the promised time arrives.”

“Yes sir.”

The entire fortress devolves into chaos as it shifts for war. Yet, despite the anarchy, a wave of bliss washes over Nokron like none before. Finally, the darkness has revealed itself. The unknown shall not haunt him for a moment longer, and though he does not take particular interest in mass slaughter, the invasion shall provide an ample breeding ground for gathering despair-wrought aura. There will be so much vapor—so much euphoria.

The dawn is ever-so brilliant.

———

Ascalon

Although Ascalon has prepared himself for this moment, standing face-to-face with The Magnus Murus proves to be more nerve-wracking than he initially anticipated. The great bastion stands tall—towering alongside plateaus of staggering height—and its darkened walls glimmer menacingly in the light. He’s finally here, finally coming to end this long period of strife once and for all.

“I envy you Sarathiel,” he confides. “I fear that anxiety is beginning to take hold of me now that we are at the forefront. If only I could take hold of even a fraction of your fearlessness.”

“Heh, who said I’m fearless?” Sarathiel chuckles. “Nah, I’m as nervous as you. Always have been whenever I have to lead the charge. It’s a feeling that you’ll never get used to, but eventually you just have to embrace it.”

“Haha, a small comfort, then, knowing that I am not alone.”

The two march alone towards the fortress’s gates as planned by Lorelai. Sarathiel’s advance will serve as the signal—the point of no return—for the assault to begin in earnest. He is the spear, and Ascalon is the shield.

Shield…it is a wonderful word. To think the day has come where he may stand side-by-side alongside the others as equals. He can think of no greater honor.

A loud, mechanical groan suddenly rings through the air. The fortress walls are slowly shifting, and they give way to assemble an ominous machine; a weapon of mass destruction brought forth from the deepest pits of dark, human ingenuity. Metallic tendrils lurch outwards from the obsidian alloy that forms its structure, and malevolent energy begins to concentrate at the ray’s base—creating a web of overlapping beams that coalesce into a single, devastating laser.

“Uh, Ascalon, you sure we have enough people for your power to work?” Sarathiel questions. “Cause that…that doesn’t look good.”

“Fear not Sarathiel. We have more than enough. Trust me.”

“Always have. Just being careful is all.”

“I do not blame you. That weapon…it is being fueled with the life force of countless magi. I can feel the raw anguish of their aura all the way from here. Creation is weeping at their pain. A ghastly sight, but sadly not uncommon—undoubtedly one of Xeros’s twisted creations.

“Nokron appears content with ending our invasion swiftly, no matter what it may cost him. I expect no less from one of The Grand General’s commanders, but the act still sickens me to my very core.”

The laser nears the end of its convergence, emitting an unnatural howl as the machine convulses from the pressure.

“…I suppose it is time for me to begin. Ready, Sarathiel?”

“Yep. For Polus.”

“For Polus.”

Ascalon takes a deep breath in and slowly takes a step forward with The Mattatron in hand. The Monarch’s Wings materialize onto his back and begin to surround his body in its amber glow.

“O’, my beloved citizens,” he chants. “You are my guiding light. My will. All that I am—and ever will be—is because of your trust. As long as your faith in me holds strong, I will never waver. I am immovable, indomitable; your strength is mine, and mine yours. Now, and forevermore.”

A king is nothing without his subjects, but the opposite does not hold true. As long as the nation’s spirit endures, the people will live on. But then what does it mean to be a king? To be a true Ruler?

The answer is simple. A king must be stronger than anyone else. He must be an immortal symbol of hope.

And immortal is exactly what he is, for as long as Ascalon is surrounded by his countryman, nothing can harm him. He is invulnerable, and not a single bit of his subjects’ aura is used for the incantation. No, the burden is entirely his to bear.

A selfish power it may appear to be—the accumulation of all for the benefit of one—but that is precisely what The Mattatron is for.

The royal zweihander shines a magnificent blue as the amber aura starts to wrap itself around the blade, birthing a radiant luster of budding lilac.

With a final, chilling shriek—the laser fires. Ascalon raises the zweihander up high and shoots the energy into the air. It explodes, and in an instant, an armor-clad, motherly figure is conjured from the scattered outburst. Her appearance is transparent, immaterial, but her affectionate gaze is as real as any other.

“Heaven’s Embrace,” Ascalon decrees.

The giantess shields the army with her lilac wings. The laser collides with a roar, but it dissipates harmlessly as the titanic figure stands her ground. With a warm smile, she fades away and the aura returns back to Creation.

“Th-that was beautiful,” Sarathiel gawks in awe. “But why did she look just like Lorelai?”

“…The aura shapes itself into the visage of the one who I most admire,” Ascalon admits with flushed cheeks.

“Oh, I see,” Sarathiel teases. “Well, that’s my cue. Remember what Lorelai said, don’t push yourself to join the fight if you’re low on aura.”

“I shan’t. May the Stars bless your charge Sarathiel.”

He smirks and manifests a pair of steel wings onto his back as his armor digs into his flesh. It is not a complete transformation—such as during his spar back at the capital—but at least he can control it in this state; he won’t lose to animalistic ferocity like before.

With a slight crack of the neck, Sarathiel takes off, charging with reckless abandon towards the fortress gates.