Asher and Vicky stepped through the shattered gates of Aetherhold or more accurately ,what was left of it after the veinforged retreated to their portals.

  What remained of the great fortress-city stretched before them in smoldering ruin—its obsidian walls cracked and scorched, its streets drowned in ash and blood. Corpses littered every alley and avenue. Humans, Durnvar, Vaelari, Morvani, Gloamkin... all the peoples of Aeloria lay broken, dying, or desperately clinging to life. Healers moved like ghosts through the carnage, their hands glowing, their voices hoarse from overuse. Medical triage centers bloomed amid the wreckage like fractured sanctuaries.

  No one noticed their king.

  Asher did not speak. He didn’t need to.

  The silence that clung to him was not of command—but of heartbreak.

  He walked with a slow, heavy tread, boots crunching against shattered stone and blood-slicked earth. His eyes swept the bodies—some still twitching, others long still—and in their faces, he saw Brynn.

  He felt her absence like a blade beneath his ribs.

  Vicky walked beside him, silent until she reached out and took his hand in her own, her grip gentle but steady.

  “Ash… we can’t save everyone,” she whispered. “We may not even make it out of this alive in the end. I know how much this hurts. Brynn’s absence—it's a hole in the bond we’ve carried so long, it feels like a part of us.”

  Asher’s jaw tightened. His voice, when it came, was raw.

  “I know, Vicky. But it’s more than pain.” He looked down at her, his emerald eyes dimmed with grief. “It’s knowing she had dreams—visions for our people, for the College, for Aetherhold. And now she’ll never see them realized. She gave everything to defeat that thing… I felt her essence fade into the Void, and I can’t stop reliving it.”

  Footsteps approached—steel on stone.

  The surviving generals found them: Elara, Kaelen, Jorven, Dravyn, Varkos of the Dominion, and Tormund. Relief colored their war-weary expressions at the sight of their king alive.

  Elara stepped forward first—her usual cold poise broken. She threw her arms around Asher, embracing him with a force that stole his breath.

  “I’m sorry, my king,” she murmured against his chest. “It happened so fast. I couldn’t save her.”

  Asher held her tight, his voice quiet and resolute. “You couldn’t have. None of you could. That thing—whatever it was—nearly killed us all. Brynn knew what she was doing. And this… this was only the beginning.”

  The others gathered close, grim silence settling like a shroud before Dravyn spoke.

  “We can’t stay here. Aetherhold is lost. We need to move what remains of the army to Ashhold in the Wastes. It’s halfway to Nyxhold—and closer to the Skyward Throne.”

  Kaelen nodded. “Jorven’s right. We must gather every surviving civilian, all supplies, and make the journey. Ashhold is our only remaining bastion.”

  Tormund added, “But don’t think those corrupted bastards will let us pass through the Wastes untouched.”

  Varkos folded his arms. “The army stands at around sixty thousand—though many are wounded. We’ve taken a hit, but we still have strength. What we’ll need is staggering—food, water, shelter, clothing for the march.”

  Asher listened, eyes scanning the broken skyline. The scent of ash and death clung to everything. At last, he turned back to his commanders.

  “Scour the city. Find every usable cart, every barrel of water, every scrap of food and fabric. Bedrolls, tools—anything that will sustain us. What we lack, we’ll summon from the Aether. Our people survived the Wastes once. We’ll do it again.”

  He paused—his breath catching at the memory of Nyxhold… the days he spent as a prisoner… the agony.

  A shadow fell over him.

  “Master.”

  Sylthara’s voice was like silk wrapped in thunder, and before he could speak, she was upon him—arms flung around him, her feet barely touching the ground, black-violet hair coiling around him protectively like living shadow.

  Asher laughed despite himself. “Sylthara, you’ve never been this dramatic. What’s going on?”

  She didn’t answer aloud. Her voice pressed into his mind like a whisper etched in starlight.

  You are my master… the strongest man I’ve ever known. I love you with everything I am. Leaving you to face that thing alone—it broke something in me. I thought… I thought I would never see you again.

  His heart ached at the vulnerability in her tone.

  He placed a hand atop her head, rubbing slow circles before patting gently. “You know I love you too, Sylthara. I wouldn’t have survived any of this without you. Without your power. Your presence.”

  She raised an eyebrow skeptically, her expression unreadable—but she didn’t pull away.

  A golden light shimmered at the edge of the ruined street.

  Aetheros stepped forward, radiant even amidst the ruin. Her luminous form bathed them all in warmth, and without hesitation, she embraced Asher as well.

  “My Champion,” she whispered, “you live. And because of that, not all is lost. We survived the first assault from the true enemy—those behind the Veinforged. But the cost was immense…”

  Her gaze turned to where the College once stood—a hollow crater rimmed with fire.

  “…and we are running out of time.”

  The generals looked to Asher. Even Aetheros did.

  They were waiting—not for a speech, but for direction. Hope. A reason to believe they could go on.

  Asher exhaled, the weight of command settling upon his shoulders once again.

  “No one person can carry this alone. I won’t pretend I have all the answers. We’ll hold a war council tonight. Until then, I want everyone gathering whatever we can use. Supplies, records, weapons, anything.”

  He looked each of them in the eye.

  “Tonight, we plan our future. Or we die without one.”

  The group dispersed, each lost in their own thoughts, their own pain.

  Only Vicky remained. She reached for Asher’s hand once more.

  “Do you think Brynn saw us win?”

  Asher didn’t answer at first. He looked to the heavens—blood-red and broken.

  “I hope so. Because gods know, we’ll need her strength in what’s coming next.”

  Vicky lingered, her hand still in his. She squeezed once—firm, grounding—then let go.

  “I’ll get the quartermasters moving,” she said softly.

  Asher nodded. “Thank you.”

  She turned without another word and was gone.

  And just like that, he was alone again.

  The wind blew through the sundered streets, whispering through the remnants of once-proud banners, their edges blackened with soot. Somewhere, a child cried. Somewhere else, a building groaned as it collapsed under its own weight.

  Asher didn’t move for a long time.

  Until a tug in his chest—not pain, not magic, something deeper—pulled him toward the eastern ward.

  Toward the training grounds.

  Toward her.

  He passed through the scorched gates of the Junior Knights Academy, his steps slowing as he crossed into the cracked stone courtyard. The walls here had held, barely, and the training yard still stood—charred at the edges, but whole. A small miracle.

  And there she was.

  Lunira.

  She stood alone amid the ruin, her too-large chainmail singed and caked with ash. She gripped her training sword in trembling hands, swinging it again and again at a cracked dummy. Her form was rigid, mechanical—driven not by discipline but by desperation. Each strike came faster, more frenzied. Her breath hitched. Her arms shook.

  She didn’t hear him approach.

  She didn’t see the tears tracking clean lines through the soot on her cheeks.

  She didn’t notice the way her legs trembled under her, like a blade pushed too hard against the whetstone.

  She just kept swinging.

  Asher stepped into the ring without a word.

  The moment she sensed him, she froze.

  And then she turned.

  Her eyes widened.

  “Asher.”

  She dropped the blade and ran, flinging herself into his arms so forcefully that he stumbled back a step. He caught her, lifting her with ease, her arms clutching around his neck with a ferocity born of fear, relief, and something deeper.

  “You’re alive,” she whispered, voice raw and hoarse. “I thought—when the sky broke—I thought I’d lost you too.”

  Asher held her close, resting his cheek against the crown of her soot-streaked hair.

  “I’m here, little knight,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

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  Lunira shook in his arms. “I trained. Just like you said. I didn’t run. I—I tried to fight. But the walls—everyone was screaming—I didn’t know where to go—”

  “You did exactly what you were meant to do,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You survived.”

  She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

  “I’m ready now,” she said fiercely. “To fight. Really fight. Like you.”

  Asher’s heart clenched. She was so young. Too young.

  But in her eyes, he saw no innocence left. Not anymore.

  He knelt and took her face in his hands, brushing ash from her cheeks.

  “You will be strong,” he said. “Stronger than me, someday. But not yet.”

  Her lips trembled. “But—”

  “Soon,” he promised. “But right now, I need you safe. We’re leaving the city. Heading to Ashhold.”

  She nodded slowly, pressing her forehead to his chest.

  “Will Brynn be there?”

  Asher closed his eyes.

  And for the first time in days, he couldn’t lie.

  “No,” he said softly.

  Lunira didn’t speak again.

  She just held on tighter.

  And in that moment, beneath the shadow of a ruined city, Asher held his last flicker of light—and swore he would never let the darkness take her.

  Not while he still lived.

  The fires had quieted.

  Not gone—but dimmed to smoldering coals scattered across the broken shell of Aetherhold. The screaming had stopped too, replaced by a silence that wasn’t peace—just exhaustion. The kind that sank into bones and settled there, heavy and unmoving.

  Asher carried Lunira back to what remained of the keep with a steady but distant gait. Her arms had stayed around his neck the whole way, though she’d long since stopped crying. She just held on. Quiet. Small. Alive.

  And that, for now, was enough.

  By the time he returned her to the remaining wardens—those who had stepped up to protect the surviving children—he could feel the weight of the next thing waiting for him.

  Duty had no patience for grief.

  The others were already gathering.

  He could feel it in the air—tension tightening like a drawn bowstring. Boots echoing off stone. Cloaks brushing past scorched walls. Voices lowered, faces hard.

  No time for mourning.

  Not yet.

  The war council would begin soon.

  So he turned away from the children’s ward—slowly, like he didn’t want to—and began the walk toward the chamber.

  His chamber.

  Their chamber, once.

  The hallways that hadn’t collapsed had been cleared, torches re-lit, a semblance of order carved out of the chaos. But the air still smelled like ash and old blood, and every second step brought him past someone injured, or someone missing someone.

  He passed a shattered statue—Brynn’s.

  The upper half was gone, the face torn clean away by Veinforged claws. He stared at it for a second, then looked down, lips pressing into a thin line before he moved on.

  The doors to the council hall loomed ahead—half-hanging, charred, but still upright.

  Still functioning.

  Like all of them.

  He pushed the doors open and stepped inside.

  The council had begun to assemble. Faces he knew. Faces missing. Some seats forever empty.

  But they waited.

  For him.

  Asher strode forward and took his seat at the head of the grand oak table. The surface was scorched and chipped but still held its shape, like everything else that remained. He motioned for those gathered to sit.

  They all obliged—except Sylthara, who stood behind his chair, leaning in close, her violet eyes sweeping across the room like a silent warden.

  Vicky pulled a chair beside him and sat close, her hand resting on his thigh. Not for show. For strength.

  Aetheros stood by the window, her golden aura faint against the ashen light beyond, gazing out over the city’s ruin.

  Asher cleared his throat, voice worn but firm.

  “I need a report. How many soldiers do we have left?”

  Kaelen responded quickly, no hesitation. “My liege… we have around sixty-five thousand ready to fight. Which means we lost about forty-five thousand.”

  The weight of it hit the room hard. No one gasped. No one cried out. But heads lowered, eyes drifted, and a collective silence pressed in.

  Asher broke it.

  “A decent army,” he said, straightening in his chair. “And with our troops being what they are… I’d say we could take on forces twice our size with the right strategy.”

  He let his eyes drift across the table before turning to Elara.

  “Elara. Come here.”

  She didn’t speak or hesitate. She moved before the words were fully out of his mouth, stepping to his side and dropping to one knee without flourish.

  “What do you need of your shadow, my king?”

  He smiled faintly. “Take your scouts. Speak with the acting quartermaster and get whatever supplies you need. Move fast. Quiet. Prepare Ashhold for our arrival, and gather intel along the way—Veinforged movements, terrain, anything.”

  “It will be done,” she said, and without another word, vanished into shadow.

  Asher turned next to Kaelen, walking to his side and placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “My friend,” he said, voice heavy with respect, “you’ve been invaluable to our cause. I need you to gather the blacksmiths. Start repairs—armor, enchanted weapons, Aether-forged tools. And I want traps built behind us as we march. Enough to slow pursuit and turn the field if needed.”

  Kaelen nodded without hesitation. “My king, I will see to it. We’ll be ready for whatever follows us.”

  Asher moved back to the head of the table, eyes sweeping over the gathered commanders.

  “Anyone have anything they need to say?”

  There was a pause. Then Dravyn leaned forward, voice quiet but sharp.

  “We all felt it when Brynn fell. The thing that came after… the Void reacted. Amplified. What was that thing? And how many more are out there?”

  Jorven grunted. “And are we running from something… or to something? Because those are two different roads.”

  Varkos crossed his arms. “How long do we expect the march to take? The Wastes aren’t gentle. Half the supply wagons are gone, and the wounded won’t move fast.”

  Tormund leaned back, frowning. “It’s not just distance. It’s morale. Half the men think the sky itself turned on them. We need more than orders. They need a reason.”

  Kaelen added, “We’ll need to use Aether again—for water, for rations—but our mages are burned out. We’ll need to rotate them. Limit the draw.”

  Aetheros finally turned from the window. Her voice was calm, but it hit like a chime of doom.

  “The Vein isn’t done. And neither is the will behind it. I can feel it. Watching. Waiting.”

  All eyes turned to Asher.

  He let the silence settle.

  Then stood.

  Both hands braced the table. Shoulders set.

  “What we killed wasn’t a monster,” he said. “It was a general. One of the ones pulling the strings behind all of this—the Vein, the corruption, Vorlath. A commander in whatever force stands behind the curtain.”

  He met each of their eyes.

  “And I don’t think it was their strongest.”

  The room stayed still.

  “We’re not out of this. That was just the beginning.”

  He started pacing now, slow and steady.

  “So yes. We’re moving to Ashhold. But don’t fool yourselves—this isn’t a retreat. It’s positioning. We’re not running, because there’s nowhere to run.”

  He stopped, voice dropping low.

  “They can find us. Anywhere. Through magic. Through corruption. Through what they’ve already touched. The only reason they haven’t struck again is simple—they didn’t think we could win. They thought that general would wipe us all out. Thought I’d fall.”

  He looked down. Then up again, a fire beneath the grief.

  “But we didn’t.”

  “They’re watching now. Probably listening. And for the first time… they’re not sure. They’re hesitating.”

  He turned to Dravyn. “No, we didn’t kill a god. But we killed something damn close. And there’s more of them.”

  To Jorven: “We’re running toward the fight. Not away from it.”

  To Varkos: “We’ll ration what we can. Summon what we must. The Wastes will hurt. But they won’t kill us.”

  To Tormund: “Tell the men the truth. No speeches. Just the truth. We’re still here. That’s reason enough.”

  He stepped back, resting his hand on his blade.

  “We don’t survive this by being clever. Or quick. We survive it by being harder to kill than they ever imagined. And that starts now.”

  He didn’t dismiss them.

  They rose anyway.

  Because they understood.

  The weight of the council had passed. Orders were given. Plans set. And for a moment, the world let Asher breathe.

  He sat on the edge of the bed.

  His room.

  Their room.

  The candles were low. Shadows clung to every corner. The scent of lavender and steel still hung in the air—Brynn’s scent. Her boots were near the door. Her armor still on the stand. Her pendant still hung by the bed, right where she’d always left it.

  She was gone.

  But everything still felt like her.

  Sylthara lay behind him, fingers drawing slow, quiet circles across his back. Void Aether pulsed gently beneath her touch, cool and soothing like midnight water.

  Asher dropped his face into his hands and wept.

  No sound. Just breath caught in his throat, shoulders trembling as the grief broke through everything else. He didn’t try to stop it.

  And Sylthara didn’t speak.

  She just touched him. Soft and steady.

  Eventually, he let out a weak chuckle.

  “I wonder what my people would think of their king,” he said quietly, “sitting in his chambers, crying like a boy.”

  Sylthara’s hands stilled.

  Then continued—firmer now.

  “They would see a man. A human, just like them,” she said, voice sharp with emotion. “They would see grief. And they would mourn with you. They weep not just for a queen, Asher… but for a piece of the soul of this empire.”

  She leaned close, voice low.

  “You, Vicky, and Brynn… you are the spine of what we’ve built. And they know that. They don’t blame you. They trust you.”

  He turned to look at her. Raw. Hollowed out, but still listening.

  He stood slowly and walked to the broken window. The wind cut through, cold and clean. Below, the remnants of Aetherhold stirred in torchlight—slow and tired, but still alive.

  They trust me... even now.

  Even after this.

  He closed his eyes.

  Thank you.

  The words weren’t spoken, but he sent them anyway.

  Then he opened his eyes.

  “We lost everything that tied us to the old world,” he murmured. “All the Aether-tech. The teleporters. The enchanted weapons. Everything. All of it was in the College.”

  His hands tightened into fists.

  “Gone. Just like that. Years of knowledge, years of work. Wiped away in seconds.”

  He turned back to her, his voice hardening.

  “But we’re still here. And now… we protect what’s left. Even if it kills us.”

  He stepped forward, kneeling in front of her.

  “I want them to live. All of them. As many as we can save. But Lunira…”

  He looked down for a second.

  Then up again.

  “She has to make it. Even if the rest of us don’t.”

  Sylthara sat up, her Void tendrils curling protectively around him. She cupped his face gently in both hands, thumbs brushing the last of the tears away.

  She pressed her forehead to his.

  “You’re not alone in that vow,” she whispered. “We will make it so. Even if the stars fall.”

  It wasn’t a promise.

  It was a bond.

  And for the first time in days, Asher closed his eyes.

  The weight wasn’t gone.

  But for a while, it was bearable.