The sun dipped low over the ruins of Elderwynd, casting golden light through the towering bioluminescent trees. The town, once a haven of ancient glasswood towers and ivy-laden cottages, now lay in smoldering ruin. Moss-covered bridges spanned crystalline streams, their waters reflecting the devastation around them. Despite the scars of battle, the land still breathed with an eerie beauty—like a wounded beast refusing to succumb.

Captain Anya Blackstark adjusted her vambrace, rolling her shoulders as she surveyed the town square. Her reputation preceded her—ruthless in combat, unyielding in command. Yet, those under her charge knew her as more than a warrior. She was their anchor, their constant in the chaos.

Behind her, hushed voices bickered.

“Oi, I swear to the gods, Captain’s ponytail swayed exactly five centimeters just now. That means she’s irritated,” said Jerik, a lanky scout whose armor seemed to hang off his frame.

“You’re talking nonsense,” huffed Brenn, the squad’s heavy gunner. “If she was irritated, she’d have sighed first. No sigh means she’s just in deep thought.”

“You’re both wrong,” said Brody, the squad’s combat engineer, pushing up his glasses with an air of supreme confidence. “She only gets really pissed when she crosses her arms. If that happens, start digging your grave.”

Anya exhaled, long and slow. The three immediately snapped to attention, standing straighter than castle guards on parade.

“You’re all insufferable,” she muttered.

“Confirmed: she’s definitely irritated,” Jerik whispered.

Before she could threaten to reassign them to latrine duty, a healer rushed past, leading a wounded farmer toward a makeshift infirmary. The town was battered, but not broken. Of its 1300 residents, only 73 were confirmed dead or missing. A tragedy, but it could have been much worse. The Iron Revenants hadn’t sought to destroy them; they had been searching for something.

She turned her attention to the field beyond, where the adventurers’ guild had set up temporary camps. Healers scurried from patient to patient, using mana to mend wounds and stabilize the critically injured. A few rangers patrolled the perimeter, wary of lingering threats. Three days had passed since the battle, yet the work had only just begun.

A familiar voice called to her.

“Captain Blackstark, you should see this.”

Anya turned to see one of her scouts, dirt-streaked and breathless, waiting for her at the edge of town. Without a word, she followed.

They led her to the remnants of a battlefield where twisted wreckage of enemy armor lay strewn about. The Revenants’ power suits—hulking plates of patchworked metal infused with necrotic magic—had been torn apart in the battle. But what caught her attention was the sigil carved into one of the fallen suits: a mark that did not belong to the Vale.

“This isn’t standard-issue for the Empire,” she murmured, running her fingers over the engraving. The metal was foreign, its design unfamiliar.

“No, ma’am,” the scout confirmed. “We found more markings like this. And tracks leading north.”

North. Toward the Emberclad Rebellion—the resistance fighters who had long sought to drive both the Empire and House Fenralis from the Vale. If the Revenants’ power armor had been manufactured off-planet, then this was no random attack.

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The infirmary was a repurposed town hall, its wooden beams cracked but sturdy, the scent of herbal poultices thick in the air. The glow of alchemical lanterns cast a soft light on the injured, their groans blending with murmured prayers from healers tending their wounds.

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Anya’s boots barely made a sound as she stepped inside. She wasn’t sure why she had come—perhaps out of duty, perhaps out of curiosity. Either way, her gaze found Cedric of Elderwynd lying on a cot, his once-imposing frame still powerful despite his wounds. He had the air of a man who had wrestled the world into submission, yet the moment he saw her, his sharp eyes softened with an undeniable warmth.

“You’re Blackstark,” he said, voice gravelly but strong. “You’ve been holding my city together.”

“I’ve done what I can, my lord.” Her tone was measured, professional. “I came to check on your condition.”

He grunted, shifting slightly, his massive hands gripping the edge of the cot. “I’ve had worse.” Then, after a pause, his expression darkened. “My daughter...Lyra's her name...You’ve seen her?”

Anya hesitated. She had never spoken to Lyra, but she was aware of her presence in Castle Eldenreach. “She is safe in Vallorien. She's a guest in castle Eldenreach.”

Cedric exhaled, relief flashing across his face. “That girl… tougher than she looks. Always was.” His voice dropped into something softer, almost doting. “Stubborn as a mountain goat, but with a heart too big for this wretched world.”

A ghost of a smile touched Anya’s lips. “She has her father’s strength.”

Cedric scoffed, but there was pride in his eyes. “She has more than that. If I could give her a world free of this madness, I would. But we don’t live in fairytales, do we, Captain?”

“No, my lord,” she said quietly. “We do not.”

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The ruins of Blackfrost Keep loomed over the northern tundra like the bones of some long-forgotten giant. Its towers, weathered by time and war, jutted into the sky like broken teeth, while faded carvings along the stone hinted at an age before the Dominion's fall. Cold winds howled through its empty halls, whispering secrets of an empire that once ruled the stars. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and old ash, remnants of a final battle fought long ago. Shattered murals lined the corridors, depicting figures clad in radiant armor standing defiant against an unseen foe—history’s forgotten heroes, erased by time. The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional creak of ancient stone settling under its own weight, as if the keep itself mourned its lost glory.

Lyrius Draconis stood beneath the fractured arches of the keep’s great hall, his iridescent silver hair catching the dim torchlight. The flickering flames cast long shadows across his sharp features, making his golden eyes gleam like molten metal. Before him, a semicircle of Emberclad scouts knelt, their reports grave. Their armor, once polished to a mirror sheen, was now scuffed and dented, bearing the marks of countless skirmishes. The air between them crackled with tension, a palpable weight that even the howling wind could not dispel.

“The Starforge is not in Elderwynd,” one scout confirmed, his voice taut with frustration. He was young, his face still unlined by the years, but his eyes betrayed the weariness of a man who had seen too much too soon. “We searched every chamber, every vault. Whatever power once rested there is long gone.”

Beside him, Wulfric of Blackmere grunted, his battle-worn halberd resting against the ground. The weapon’s blade was nicked and scarred, a testament to the countless battles it had seen. Wulfric himself was a mountain of a man, his broad shoulders and thick arms speaking of a lifetime spent in combat. His face was a mask of grim determination, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—doubt, perhaps, or the lingering sting of betrayal. “You lead us on a fool’s hunt, Draconis,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “My men bleed while you chase shadows.”

Lyrius smiled, though his golden eyes darkened with thought. He stepped forward, his movements graceful and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. “Trust me, Lord Wulfric,” he said, his voice smooth and commanding. “The Starforge is near. With it, we can break our chains.”

Wulfric’s grip tightened on his halberd, his knuckles whitening. He had trusted before—and lost everything. The memory of his daughter’s face flashed before his eyes, her laughter echoing in his mind like a cruel joke. She had been his light, his reason for fighting, and yet he had been powerless to save her. “Trust?” he spat, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Trust is a luxury for those who can afford to lose. I’ve lost enough.”

Lyrius’s smile faded, replaced by a look of solemn understanding. He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving Wulfric’s. “You think power is a curse,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “You think it corrupts, that it turns men into monsters. But you’re wrong. Power is a tool, Wulfric. It’s neither good nor evil—it simply is. And in the hands of a righteous man, it can be a force for salvation.”

Wulfric’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Lyrius pressed on, his voice gaining intensity. “Think of your daughter,” he said, his words cutting through Wulfric’s defenses like a blade. “Think of what you could have done if you had the power to protect her. If you had been strong enough to stand against those who took her from you. Would you call that corruption? Or would you call it justice?”

The words struck a chord deep within Wulfric, stirring emotions he had long buried. He wanted to argue, to deny the truth in Lyrius’s words, but he couldn’t. The memory of his daughter’s face haunted him, a constant reminder of his failure. “You speak as if power is within my grasp,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s not. It never has been.”

“And that,” Lyrius said, his voice rising with conviction, “is why you’ve lost. Not because you lacked strength or courage, but because you refused to seize the power that could have saved her. The world doesn’t reward righteousness, Wulfric. It rewards those who have the will to take what they need.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Wulfric’s grip on his halberd loosened, his shoulders sagging under the weight of Lyrius’s words. He wanted to believe that there was another way, that he could remain true to his principles and still protect those he loved. But deep down, he knew Lyrius was right. The world was a cruel and unforgiving place, and those who hesitated were doomed to fail.

Lyrius stepped back, his expression softening. “I don’t ask for your trust, Wulfric,” he said. “I ask for your understanding. The Starforge is our key to freedom, to a world where men like you don’t have to lose everything they hold dear. But to claim it, we must be willing to do what others cannot.”

Wulfric looked at him, his eyes searching for any hint of deceit. But all he saw was a man who believed in his cause, who was willing to do whatever it took to achieve his goals. And for the first time in a long time, Wulfric felt a flicker of hope. It was a dangerous feeling, one that could easily lead to more pain and disappointment. But it was also the first step toward something greater.

“Very well,” he said, his voice steady. “But know this, Draconis. If this is another trick, if you lead us astray again, I’ll kill you myself.”

Lyrius smiled, a faint glimmer of triumph in his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”