𒄿𒀀𒀭𒈹 𒄠𒉡 𒂵𒇻𒅗𒀀𒀀𒈾 𒋾 𒀭𒀀𒆷𒀜𒁀𒀀

(It began when the Conqueror of the West took the stars in his grasp.)

𒄀𒀀𒇷𒀀𒉡 𒊬𒀀𒀀𒁕 𒄭𒋾𒆷 𒄿𒁉𒀭

(Then were the Seekers born, then did they rise.)

𒄀𒀀𒇷𒀀𒉡 𒊬𒀀𒀀𒁕 𒀀𒁍𒁉𒋗𒀀 𒅆 𒄿𒆷𒀀 𒁲𒉏

(The Seekers have awaited the signs, watched the sky, read the bones.)

𒀭𒀀𒈾𒆷𒀀 𒅆 𒅗𒀉𒉏 𒊬𒀀𒀀𒁕

(The Wardens sharpen their blades against them.)

𒊩𒄠𒉏 𒀀𒇻𒀉𒄑𒂵 𒀀𒀜𒁀𒀀

(The Ignorant scatter like ants around them.)

𒁍𒁲 𒀭𒁍𒋾 𒀀𒉡 𒁍𒆪𒁲

(Only the Trinity shall walk the path.)

𒀀𒉡 𒄭𒅇 𒁲𒀀𒀀𒀜

(False alignments in the heavens.)

𒀀𒉡 𒀭𒆷𒁺𒉏 𒆷𒀀𒀀𒀜

(Deception upon the earth.)

𒀀𒉡 𒀭𒀀𒇻𒁕𒀀 𒄀𒀀𒇷𒀀𒉡

(Lies that fester in the minds of kings.)

𒀀𒉡 𒁾𒀀𒀜 𒅗𒋗𒀀

(Sickness upon the bodies of the faithful.)

𒀀𒉡 𒉆 𒀭𒅎𒈠𒆷𒁍𒀭

(Only the Ziggurat stands eternal.)

𒁲𒀀𒀀𒀜 𒊭𒁉𒁲 𒀀𒉡 𒆷𒁲𒀉 𒆠𒀀𒈾𒁴

(When the Serpent coils around its stone heart.)

𒁲𒀀𒀀𒀜 𒊭𒁉𒁲 𒀀𒉡 𒆷𒆷𒀀𒀀 𒉏𒀀𒋗𒀀

(When its walls weep red as the setting sun.)

𒁲𒀀𒀀𒀜 𒊭𒁉𒁲 𒀭𒀀𒈾𒆷𒁲 𒆪𒁲𒉏

(When three fires rise from the horizon.)

𒁉𒀀𒀀 𒊬𒀀𒁕𒀀𒋗𒀀

(I shall coil around it.)

𒁉𒀀𒀀 𒆷𒆷𒀀𒀀 𒉏𒀀𒋗𒀀

(I shall make its walls bleed.)

𒁉𒀀𒀀 𒀭𒀀𒈾𒆷𒁲 𒆪𒁲𒉏 𒉏 𒊭𒁉𒁲

(I shall grasp the three fires in my hand.)

𒁉𒀀𒀀 𒊩𒄠𒉏 𒁲𒀀𒀀𒀜 𒅆 𒀀𒁍𒁉𒋗𒀀

(And the Burning Crown shall shatter at my feet.)

𒀭𒀀𒈠𒆷𒁍𒀭 𒉆𒀀 𒄿𒀀𒀭𒆷𒀜𒁀

(I shall raise the Ziggurat high above the world.)

𒀭𒉆𒀀 𒈪𒀀 𒁲𒀀𒀀𒀜 𒀀𒀀𒀜 𒀀𒋗𒀀

(And the Red Beast shall reign once more.)

The entire building shuddered, the walls groaning under the force of a distant explosion. Dust rained down from the ceiling, mingling with the stale air, thick with the acrid scent of burnt plastic and crumbling concrete. Wyatt held his breath, his fingers tightening around his rifle, waiting out the tremor. Only when the ground settled did he risk a glance through the shattered window.

Fire and chaos consumed the streets below. Tracer rounds streaked through the smoke-choked sky, their eerie glow painting jagged red and green slashes across the battlefield. In the market square, a makeshift barricade trembled under the relentless hammer of machine gun fire, answered by the deep, gut-punching boom of distant artillery shells. The attack was coordinated—fast, ruthless, and efficient. Too efficient. And that gnawed at Wyatt’s nerves.

“This is a goddamn war,” Wallace muttered beside him.

The Scotsman was sweating through his fatigues, damp patches blooming across the fabric. His broad forehead glistened, his hands clenched so tightly around his rifle that his knuckles had gone pale. “They don’t pay us for this kind of shit,” he added, his voice tight.

Before Wyatt could answer, a deafening burst of machine gun fire tore through the windows, shattering what little glass remained. Bullets chewed through the walls, spraying plaster and shards of wood across the floor. Instinct took over. Everyone hit the deck.

“Well, the contract didn’t say anything about being in the middle of a war zone,” Vladimir muttered from Wyatt’s left.

“We’re in the middle of Central Asia,” Wyatt shot back, ever the realist. “The entire place is a war zone.”

It was almost ridiculous. They were speaking in the clipped, manic tones of men who knew they were in serious danger but had no choice but to keep moving forward. A fresh burst of gunfire roared outside, the metallic staccato answering another volley from the upper floors. The fight was happening all around them, but for now, no one had them in their sights.

“We’re mercs,” came the calm, measured voice of their commanding officer. “They pay us to fight.”

Marshal. Good old Marshal. At thirty-five, he was the eldest among them, though war had aged him beyond his years. Gray streaked his stubble, his face lined with experience, his sharp eyes constantly scanning, calculating. Always five steps ahead.

Some of the men had already started moving, slipping through the debris-strewn hallways in search of better cover. But others hesitated—Wyatt saw it in their eyes. The same creeping dread that always took root before a slaughter. And this? This had all the makings of one.

Gunfire thundered from the street below, answered in kind by weapons on the upper floors. Marshal crawled toward different groups, issuing quiet orders. Silence was their best ally right now—letting the fight happen around them, picking their moment. Wyatt spotted a few slipping away, likely to cover the exits. The old man finally made his way to where Wyatt, Wallace, and Vladimir were hunkered down.

“Popular spot,” Marshal muttered, nodding toward the city beyond. “Been here before?”

“No, sir,” Wyatt said. “Don’t even know the name.”

“I told you like five times,” Wallace huffed.

“I don’t care,” Wyatt admitted flatly.

Then the mortar hit.

The blast rocked the building, shaking the very bones of the structure. Rubble tumbled from the ceiling, sending up clouds of choking dust. Someone cursed. Someone else coughed violently. They had to move.

“ANYWAY,” Wallace barked, forcing the conversation back on track.

“Yeah, we still got a job to do,” Marshal said, his close-cropped hair dusted in debris, his expression grim. His eyes shone with a quiet, unshakable determination. “And I don’t think this is the kind of job we can slink away from.”

“Why?” Wallace asked, his voice edging toward desperation. “We were paid upfront.”

Marshal exhaled through his nose. “Because I get the feeling that whoever these people are, they’re the kind of organization we do not want to cross.”

Silence. Wallace went pale. Grim. Another explosion rattled the walls. Wyatt met Marshal’s gaze and saw the truth written there. They weren’t making it out clean. Hell, most of them weren’t making it out at all.

Marshal must’ve thought the same, because he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “We’re going in,” he said. “We hold the line. Buy some time.”

Wyatt’s stomach twisted. A suicide mission. The enemy was too numerous, too well-trained. No one who went into that meat grinder was coming back.

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Marshal clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “You, on the other hand, have a job to do.”

Wyatt exhaled sharply. He already knew what was coming.

“The hospital,” Marshal continued. “Secure the target. Get to the rendezvous point.”

Wyatt swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. A lot went unsaid. The words didn’t need to be spoken.

They both knew this was goodbye.

Then another explosion hit—closer this time. The building groaned like a dying beast, its foundations shifting. Debris rained down, and Wyatt threw up an arm to shield his face. And then, suddenly, something clicked in his mind.

The building was going to collapse.

He turned to Marshal, an idea forming fast. “We can use it,” he said urgently. “Set the charges—bring it down in our favor. If we time it right, the collapse will form a barricade. Buy you time.”

Marshal hesitated for only a second. Then he nodded, sharp and decisive. “It’s doable.” His eyes flicked across the room, already planning. Already seeing the steps ahead. “Take a squad of five and go.”

Wyatt looked to his left, locking eyes with Vladimir for the briefest moment. His closest friend. His brother in all but blood. But Marshal had already chosen, and Vlad wasn’t among the five.

They exchanged a silent look. A farewell of sorts. Then Wyatt turned, motioning to the five assigned to him.

“Move,” he ordered, stepping into the half-collapsed hallway.

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Wyatt and the five men chosen for the job slipped into the ruins without a word, the roar of battle fading behind them. They moved through the shattered remains of the city’s infrastructure, threading their way through a maintenance path—an open wound in the earth, torn apart by shelling and neglect. Sunlight sliced through jagged cracks in the ceiling, casting long, shifting shadows against the rubble-strewn floor. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by their careful steps.

Wyatt kept his rifle raised, senses razor-sharp. Every nerve in his body thrummed with tension, alert for movement. Then he heard it.

A sound he knew too well.

Not just the staccato bursts of Western rifles—those were expected. Not just the whir of German drones or the sharp crack of black-market carbines.

No.

This was something else.

The unmistakable, bone-rattling hammering of AK-variant rifles. And beneath it… a sound that set his teeth on edge.

The deep, guttural growl of Russian tank engines.

He stopped dead, heart hammering. If the Russians were here—really here—then everything was about to change.

His stomach clenched.

Something was wrong.

He turned sharply—only to find himself alone.

The five men were gone. No sound, no signal, just... gone. Like ghosts vanishing into the dust.

Figures. They’d been paid upfront. Mercenaries weren’t the loyal kind.

But Wyatt still had a job to do. And he wasn’t about to run.

The path twisted ahead, slanting upward. Patches of golden light pooled on the cracked concrete, illuminating jagged metal beams and shattered pipes. Wyatt moved quickly, staying close to the walls, every instinct screaming at him to stay alert.

Then he saw it.

A rusted ladder, leading up.

The battle wasn’t far—but it was far enough. And if the hospital was still standing, then this was his best chance to reach it unseen.

He exhaled, steadying his grip on his rifle, then climbed.

Emerging into a narrow back alley, he crouched low, scanning his surroundings. The city—something Turkic, though he’d never cared to learn the name—spread out before him in broken silence. He never learned the names. He never stayed long enough for it to matter.

Here, away from the immediate fighting, the world felt still. Muted. As if the city itself was holding its breath.

But beyond the fractured walls and abandoned market stalls, war raged on. Gunfire rattled through the streets. The distant whump of grenades sent tremors through the ground beneath his boots.

Wyatt moved fast, threading through the maze of rubble, skirting burned-out vehicles and collapsed buildings. Every turn was calculated, each movement deliberate, keeping him away from the thick of the fighting. He pieced together the city’s layout in his mind, mapping out where the hospital had to be.

Then—

A chain of explosions ripped through the air.

The ground shuddered beneath him. A deep, thunderous crash followed—the unmistakable sound of a building collapsing in on itself.

Marshal was making his move.

Wyatt didn’t need to see it. He knew. The old man was bringing the walls down. Buying time.

Which meant Wyatt was on the clock.

Gritting his teeth, he pressed forward, picking up speed. Either Marshal and his team would die in the wreckage, or they’d break through.

Either way, in the end, Wyatt would be alone.

As he ran, his mind turned over the pieces, fitting them together with grim clarity. The warlords, the insurgents—they’d been pushing harder, with coordination far beyond their usual chaos. Too organized. Too precise.

The Russians weren’t just arming them.

They were directing them.

But why? Why so boldly? Why such an aggressive push? It seemed reckless—until it didn’t.

Then it clicked.

Wyatt stopped mid-stride. His breath caught in his throat. The truth hit like ice water down his spine.

He knew who was behind this.

Three breaths.

That was all he allowed himself.

One. To acknowledge the truth.

Two. To crush the instinct to turn and run.

Three. To move.

Then he was running, faster than before, rifle tight in his grip, boots hammering against the broken ground.

He had to reach the hospital.

Now.

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Wyatt ran, faster now, more careless than before. He knew who was commanding the advance, and that knowledge gnawed at him, coiling tight around his nerves. It wasn’t just the name—wasn’t just the man. It was what it meant.

If he was here, leading this push, then everything was already in place. Every contingency accounted for. Every move already played out three steps ahead. The battle wasn’t just some reckless insurgent charge; it was a performance, and the Russians had written the script.

Wyatt veered into an alley, breath sharp, bootfalls hammering against cracked pavement. The hospital. Were they aiming for it too? It made sense—securing a medical center was a logical step in an occupation. But this—this didn’t feel like occupation. It didn’t feel like the careful, grinding inevitability of a Russian advance. It felt like something else.

The thought unsettled him, sent his mind spiraling down twisting corridors of speculation.

They weren’t just supporting the insurgents—they were directing them. Pushing them forward with uncharacteristic aggression. It was too fast, too confident. And then there was the boldness of it all. The sheer audacity. This wasn’t how the Russians played war. Not unless—

Unless they weren’t worried about resistance.

Wyatt’s breath came faster, his body moving on instinct while his mind raced ahead, tripping over its own logic. It wasn’t just that they had an objective—it was that they had already won. He was running through a city that was a battlefield in name only. The fighting was still raging, but the outcome had already been decided, locked into place. It wasn’t just war—it was a mechanism. A machine, churning forward, cold and efficient.

And he was caught in it.

His fingers tightened around his rifle. He had to move faster.

The city around him was deathly still.

Beyond the broken walls, past the skeletal remains of half-ruined buildings, war roared like a distant storm. Tank fire thundered, gunshots cracked, but here—here, in this abandoned stretch of alley and dust-choked roads—there was only silence. The civilians huddled in darkened doorways, their eyes wide and hollow, whispering prayers too low for him to hear. Their presence should have made the city feel alive. Instead, it made it feel more like a corpse.

Wyatt pushed forward. The hospital wasn’t far now. He just had to—

A shrill whistle cut the air.

His stomach lurched, instincts screaming too late—

Impact.

The world snapped apart. A flash of pressure, impossibly bright, impossibly loud—then nothing.

Silence.

Then—

White.

A vast, paper-textured whiteness, stretching out in every direction.

Slowly, his senses crept back, dragging sluggishly through molasses. He reached up, fingertips brushing against his own face. Muck. Grime. Blood. His equipment was still strapped to him, his rifle still slung across his back. He exhaled. His breath felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.

His rational mind caught up. Concussion round. That had been a concussion round. But why? Why here?

His thoughts looped, twisted, turned in on themselves, folding like origami into strange, impossible shapes. This wasn’t right. He wasn’t dead—he’d been close to the veil too many times to mistake it. No, this was something else. Something colder. More detached.

He turned.

A woman stood before him.

No. Not a woman. Not exactly.

The shape of one, maybe—tall, slender, silver-haired, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to swallow the light. She wore plain white, unmarked, featureless. And jutting from her head—horns. Twisted, malformed, half-formed things that bent at unnatural angles.

She watched him with a strange expression—curiosity, naivety, something else, something darker, slithering beneath her gaze. Something like hunger.

She smiled.

And the pressure in his skull exploded.

His ears rang—no, screamed—air crushed against him from all sides, the weight of existence itself pressing in—

Wyatt gasped awake.

His body jerked, lungs dragging in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. Dust and debris filled his throat. His hands scrambled against loose earth. The sky above was fractured, blurred with smoke and fire. He was lying on the edge of a crater, the ground still trembling beneath him.

His head pounded. His vision swam.

But he was alive.

And somewhere, beyond the distant echoes of battle, beyond the ringing in his skull—he swore he could still hear her laugh. A laugh made of metal, gunfire and bone over rock.