The week that followed was a gathering storm.
The beasts came not in straggling bands, but in a tide—clawed, horned, bellowing their fury into the skies as they surged up the crag-bound paths that led to the capital. No mind guided them, only raw rage—a collective scream given flesh. Once-men, forestwalkers twisted beyond recognition, even lowland drakes foaming at the maw—Wrath's echo had bled into the bones of the land and summoned its broken.
The capital, blessed and cursed by its geography, sat like a crown atop a natural bastion of stone. Only three roads ascended the cliffs to its outer walls—each winding, narrow, carved with switchbacks too tight for war machines and steep enough to choke cavalry. Ideal for defense. Or death.
Along those narrow climbs, the awakened of the city stood ready.
They were no longer simply chosen. They were champions now—clad in reinforced armor inscribed with divine blessings, flanked by standard bearers of each church. Flames wreathing gauntlets. Shields glowing with faint silver light. Their eyes burned with the fire of the divine and the desperate.
Archons of the Forge hurled molten bolts into the horde below. Scholars of the Librarian launched glyphs from floating scrolls, detonating precision blasts into the clustered ranks. Paladins of the Shield locked shields into a shimmering wall, standing unmoved as beasts crashed against them and shattered. Clerics of the Holy Mother whispered words that knit torn flesh and steadied shaking minds.
Above them, at the great gate of the inner city, stood Koda's party.
They did not join the fray.
Not yet.
For theirs was not a battle of masses—it would be a duel with the storm's eye itself, should Wrath reveal its monstrous form.
So they waited. Ready.
Koda stood at the battlement, hands behind his back, the wind catching the edge of his cloak. The shadow armor shimmered faintly, and the golden trace of Kindness pulsed at his throat like a heartbeat. Beside him, Maia gazed down, her Sanctuary cast across the gate—a dome of subtle light calming the spirits of those who fought just beneath its edge.
Thessa stood to her left, eyes narrowed, lips moving in silent prayer. Junen adjusted the sight on her sacred longbow, already tracing the battlefield. Wren crouched low, fingers drumming against her knives in anticipation. Terron and Deker stood together, silent and unyielding—living anchors.
To the far side of the gate, another group stood in mirrored readiness.
Veylan's party.
They bore the marked insignia of the Eternal Guide, radiant and unmistakable, each member dressed in the ceremonial white and gold. They stood tall, proud—and capable, to their credit. A swordmage radiated divine fire, a lancer clad in miststeel poised with tranquil focus, a healer weaving soft light between her hands. The team was formed with purpose.
Koda watched them closely, not out of rivalry, but concern.
If they could hold their own, good. The city needed every hand. But what worried him wasn't whether they could fight.
It was whether their victory would be allowed to speak for itself—or be rewritten, spun into dogma and doctrine. Veylan didn't stand with them, but his shadow loomed longer than any banner.
"We'll give them the battle," Maia murmured beside him, eyes not leaving the field.
Koda nodded once. "And watch for the war."
Thunder rolled in the distance—not sky-born, but ground-shaking. Something massive moved in the heart of the horde. Still hidden. Still waiting.
But coming.
———
Several days passed, and still the battle did not end.
It was no longer a siege—it was attrition incarnate. Relentless waves of frenzied beasts hurled themselves up the paths, heedless of loss, as though Wrath itself could not fathom the concept of retreat. The cliffs beneath the capital were littered with corpses, black blood soaking into the stone, yet the horde did not falter.
And the defenders held.
Koda had not slept properly in three days.
He moved like a wraith through the sky when needed—leaping from the battlements to intercept winged horrors before they could breach the inner district. Great raptors with burning eyes. Batlike monstrosities born of fury and shadow. He carved them from the air in bursts of light and dark, then returned without fanfare.
Below, Maia and Thessa worked endlessly in the overflowing field hospitals.
They had transformed the southern gardens and nearby temples into sanctuaries of healing. Maia's sanctuary was now layered—cast gently across the wounded to keep minds calm, muscles still. She barely spoke, her movements efficient, focused. Thessa was tireless—cleansing infection, purging corruption, triaging the wounded. Her robes were stained with dried blood, but her eyes held steady.
Wren and Deker vanished into the veins of the city, helping where precision was needed most.
Wren coordinated supply runners through the maze of rubble and barricades, her speed and instincts keeping the flow from stalling. Deker carried crates by hand when horses failed. Protected vulnerable caravans. Occasionally, he would appear on a wall just long enough to stop a collapsing section from breaking, then vanish back into the flow.
But three remained on the wall.
Terron. Junen. Koda.
Their post was unshaken. Their gaze never left the battlefield.
Terron stood like a statue of war, hammer slung across his back, arms folded across ironclad chest. He hadn't spoken much since the second day, when one of the larger beasts had managed to climb the outer wall. He killed it in one blow—and had remained there since, watching for another.
Junen stood beside him, shield slung over her back, hands resting on the pommel of her sword. She was calm, grounded, her presence a quiet pillar beside Terron's looming bulk. She hadn't spoken much, but her eyes never left the battlefield—scanning for fractures, for the enemy who might slip through. If the front line buckled, she would be the first to anchor it. Not with speed or flash, but with unbreakable will. The wall behind the wall.
Koda stood between them, one hand resting against the stone edge of the wall. His golden gaze swept the field below constantly, searching for the moment—the moment—when this wasn't just a swarm anymore. When it would shift. When Wrath would reveal itself, or when corruption would reach its critical mass.
And when it did, they would descend.
They were the final line.
The storm had not yet peaked.
But it was building.
Koda's shadow peeled away from the battlements once more, his form streaking down into the chaos like a comet of midnight and fire. As his boots struck the earth, his cloak flared—gold light blooming in tandem with the dark.
"Aegis Flare," he called, voice like iron drawn across stone, and his arms spread wide.
From within him surged Sanctuary of the Heart, layered over the blaze like a divine pulse. The two skills didn't just combine—they harmonized, weaving into a radiant shield of cleansing essence. It exploded outward in a ring, sweeping through the enemy lines with a sound like burning cloth soaked in holy oil.
Beasts shrieked, corrupted flesh melting, and in the wake of the light only scorched earth remained. Those few defenders who had been on the brink stumbled back in stunned silence, panting with relief.
Above, on the wall, Junen's grip tightened on her sword. Terron exhaled through his nose, half in awe, half in gratitude. Even from up high, the heat of the flame brushed against their skin—like standing before something too vast to hold in reverence for long.
And across from them, the other party remained still.
Veylan's chosen stood in polished armor and pristine robes, their faces composed, unbothered, almost detached. Not one stepped forward. Not one raised a blade or summoned light. They merely observed, as though they were here to bear witness, not to defend.
Junen's gaze flicked their way.
"They're waiting," she muttered, voice low. "For us to bleed enough that their hands can stay clean."
Koda reappeared beside them moments later, his brow damp but his gaze sharp.
"They can wait all they want," he said, silver eyes narrowing. "But if they think they'll claim this victory… they'll have to earn it in blood."
And far below, the beasts screamed anew—another wave rising to test the capital's edge.
———
Two days passed, and the war didn't stop to breathe.
The city's walls had held, barely—lines of awakened defenders rotating in shifts, burning through stamina and potions just to stand upright. The thin mountain roads funneling the invading horde offered a defensive advantage, but not peace. The beasts came in waves: some lumbering and massive, others quick and shrieking, all driven by an unnatural fury.
Koda and his team had become a rhythm.
Maia and Thessa worked tirelessly in the triage halls near the southern gate, healing hands pressed to flesh worn raw. Wren and Deker moved in constant motion through the supply lines, routing provisions to those still fighting. Terron and Junen held the walls beside Koda, each day spent scanning the forested pass for signs of corruption or worse—signs of Wrath itself.
And Koda…
Koda became fire and stillness in equal measure. He leapt from the battlements in arcs of shadow and silver light, carving through clustered enemies with Aegis Flame infused by Sanctuary of the Heart, buying the defenders room to stand. Each time he returned, he landed harder. Moved slower. His breath deepened not from fatigue, but from something more subtle: the ache of endlessness.
They weren't winning.
Not yet.
And the other party—Veylan's chosen—had yet to lift a hand in real battle. They stood at the higher northern ridge, pristine, watching. Perhaps waiting. Perhaps posturing. Koda stopped wondering what their reason was.
He had his own.
By the third evening, Koda stood atop the central gate again, silent. His silver eyes scanned the horizon, but the tension in his body said he was listening—to something deeper than sight. Junen stepped up beside him, shield resting lightly at her side.
"We'll hold another day," she offered.
Koda didn't respond at first. Then, he spoke.
Quietly. "I want to try something."
Before she could ask, he stepped forward and vanished over the edge.
Again, the drop. Again, the flare of his soul as he landed.
But this time—no flame. No shield. He didn't rise in defiance or rage.
He closed his eyes.
And breathed.
Deep. Slow. Heavy.
His soul opened, and Kindness flowed—not as light, but as surrender.
Not to the enemy.
To feeling nothing.
He reached down—not to the fire in his chest, but to the still pool of weight beneath it. And there, he called it by name.
"Sloth."
The effect was immediate.
Around him, the forward ranks of the beast army hesitated. A howl cut short mid-scream. A clawed foot scraped the dirt and then stilled. The nearest beast simply… sat, staring blankly, its muscles uncoiled and limp.
And then the ripple began.
A pulse of gray apathy swept outward like ink dropped into water. Creatures faltered in their charge. The shriek of bloodlust became a murmur of confusion. Teeth unclenched. Eyes dulled. Bodies dropped—not from wounds, but from emptiness. They gave up. Laid down. Some turned their heads as if in thought, then simply stopped moving.
Even in the air, some winged beasts wobbled, spiraled, and fell like leaves.
Koda stood in the center of it all, hands low, shoulders slack.
But it didn't stop there.
He felt it crawling into him too—Sloth, not just cast but absorbed. His limbs resisted command. His mind tried to wander, to sleep, to let go. Apathy pressed on him like water pressing in on lungs. His knees buckled. The will to fight, to speak, to care—
Gone.
Until something rose in its place.
Not fire. Not pride. Not duty.
Just a steady, unrelenting rhythm. A choice.
To continue. To finish.
Koda's hand clenched. His spine straightened against the weight. And in that act—repetition, effort, defiance without anger—something deep inside cracked and transformed.
A chime echoed through his soul.
His status pulsed. And where once a skill had sat dormant, there now glowed something far greater.
new Trait: Diligence (Divine)
"To rise each day and shape the world. To finish what others abandon."
The bearer gains stacking bonuses for sustained effort and consistency.
Diligence grants resistance to fatigue, fear, and distraction, making the bearer unshakable in prolonged challenges.
The fog of Sloth lingered around him, but Koda walked through it like stone parting smoke.
One step.
Then another.
And as he moved, the ground seemed to remember how to breathe. The beasts behind him slumped fully to the earth, already fading like a nightmare in daylight. The wave had broken—not by fire, but by the simple, divine exhaustion of not giving up.
Above, Terron whispered, "He's not just fighting. He's shaping the battle."
Junen's hand tightened around her shield.
And high on the ridge, the false heroes said nothing—still watching.
But below, Koda walked on.
And the world moved with him.
From the highest gallery within the Eternal Guide's spire, the four cardinals stood in silence.
The war meeting had only just concluded—another round of strategic proposals, dispute over supply lines, the gnawing uncertainty of when Wrath would reveal himself. The city below had not known rest in days.
But now, from the wide arching window of divinely-carved stone, they saw something else entirely.
There—far below—he moved.
Koda.
No wings. No blaze of power. Just a man walking forward across the battlefield, his long shrowd stirring behind him with every step. The pass beneath the capital, once filled with roars and fury, had fallen silent.
The creatures lay where they'd once surged. Not wounded. Not scattered.
Still.
The air around him did not burn—it breathed, slow and deep. He was not conquering them. He was releasing them.
Behind him, as he passed, the battlefield fell into quiet. No screams. No final resistance.
Just. Death.
Isses, Cardinal of the Divine Forger, exhaled like a bellows cooling steel. "He walks like a hammer that no longer needs to strike."
Lucien, the Librarian, narrowed his ink-blotted eyes. His quill hovered mid-air, forgotten. "This… this will need a new chapter. There is no precedent for what we are witnessing."
Thane said nothing, arms folded against the weight of what could not be shielded. His jaw was tight.
But it was Essna, Cardinal of the Holy Mother, who stepped closest to the window, hand against her heart.
"He's not purging them," she said, voice trembling. "He's showing them peace… a peace so absolute they forget to rage."
None spoke after that.
Far below, Koda continued walking—through the dead, through the haze, into the heart of war itself.
And the battlefield listened.