The gorge narrowed around me,
every breath a cold whisper of damp stone and distant thunder.
My curved blade swung lightly at my hip—an extension of muscle
and memory—yet my mind raced ahead to the coming ambush.
They know this trail better than we do.
I reminded myself to breathe, to feel the moss underfoot,
the pulse of the Spiral Tree thrumming through the wards on my skin.
A flicker of motion:
two raven‑feathered figures perched on a ledge twenty paces above.
In the same heartbeat, torches flair‑lit by our wardens cast tall, trembling shadows.
I braced the haft of my sword with both hands,
toes digging into the dewy earth.
They dove.
Their sabers sang—a twisting slash meant for my skull.
I ducked, the air parting centimeters above my helm,
and rose into a riposte that rang clang against feather‑woven leather.
Sparks showered through the dusk.
My sword drove upward, grazing the raider's ribs in a line of burning steel—not enough to kill,
but more than sufficient to unseat him.
He tumbled backward into the choking vines, cawing in surprise.
First strike taken.
I scanned for the second attacker, heart a drumbeat of discipline and adrenaline.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lyra's bloomsteel bloom into motion beside me.
We fought as one—two chords in a living song.
My blade felt alive, humming with the Spiral Tree's echo.
The moment Kaien's back was clear,
I sprang to intercept the second raider.
Not today. I whispered—half to the steel, half to myself.
I arced my wrist in a perfect half‑circle,
the flat of bloomsteel sliding along his leather‑clad thigh with a rasping scrape.
He cried out, clutching the wound, and pitched forward into the vine‑hung ruin.
Relief flickered in my chest: the wardens would finish him safely now.
But there—beyond the fallen raider's shape, a shadow moved with unnatural silence.
A slender figure stepped from the gloom,
skin pale as moonlit obsidian,
twin blades gleaming.
Another.
My heart tightened. I stepped forward, raising blade in a ward‑glyph.
Flames of green and rose‑gold braided around the steel's spine.
The Shadowborn advanced, grace drawn from nightmares.
Hold the line. I told myself. We do not yield to fear.
The creature's first strike snapped sparks as my shield‑forged gauntlet met its blade with a thunk.
The impact ricocheted up my arm, white heat blooming in my shoulder.
I countered, sword a living coil of light,
only to feel the next blow slice the air by my ear—a whisper of death.
A roar tore free from my throat.
I launched myself forward, planting a foot in its chest, forcing it back into the narrow gorge.
Our blades interlocked in a shower of sparks—steel whispering against steel—
while Lyra's ward‑glyph seared through its pauldron with a sizzling hiss.
The beast recoiled, stumbling over a root.
Now. I lunged, blade flashing in an upward arc that sheared the Shadowborn's arm‑guard.
Metal scrunched; joint unhinged.
It screamed, dark eyes widening,
then lurched backward over the ledge and vanished into the black below.
I exhaled raggedly, chest heaving.
"Stand down!" I called, voice echoing against the stone.
The forest swallowed my command.
I watched from the shadowed trees, every muscle coiled like a spring.
When the Shadowborn fell,
I stepped into the clearing, knife in hand—not for death,
but to bind. We show mercy, I reminded myself.
Mercy shapes their memory of us.
I crossed to the trembling youth raider still pinned by my warden's torchlight.
His wide eyes glistened with unshed tears.
My dagger's blade glittered silver.
I drew it across the leather—no deeper than a scratch—then pressed my palm over the cut.
Warmth of ward‑light unfurled from my fingers, knitting torn hide into smooth skin.
He inhaled sharply, relief softening his features.
"Go," I whispered. "Tell them: the Hollow's flame spares those who choose to remember."
His nod was a shuddered promise.
By the time the fighting ended, my wand pulses had dimmed to gentle embers.
From the shadows, I stepped forward and cast a final spiral of ward‑light around our six wardens,
sealing the gorge against further intrusion.
We are the living chorus of defiance, I reminded myself.
Each enchantment a note in our unbroken hymn.
The dawn's first pale streaks stretched across the sky.
Lanterns swung gently, casting sickle‑shaped shadows on mossy stones.
I let the wards settle, humming with the Spiral Tree's rhythm beneath the earth.
We gathered atop the ridge where moonlight met coming dawn,
blades sheathed, breaths steady with triumph and resolve.
I looked at Lyra, her chest rising and falling in time with her bloomsteel's faint hum.
I met Aira's calm gaze, and then Rin's serene smile.
In the hush, I felt the Spiral Tree's distant heartbeat—steady, unbroken.
"Tonight we sharpened steel and mercy alike," I said, voice soft but clear.
"Let these voices in the gloating shadows carry our vow:
that memory's flame endures, and we stand ever watchful."
Dawn blossomed at our backs, petals of light spilled across the world.
And in that radiance,
I knew the next fight would come—but so would our answer,
sharper than any blade and brighter than the fiercest ember.