The sun dipped low over the ruins of Elderwynd, casting golden light through the t biolumirees. The town, once a haven of a gsswood towers and ivy-den cottages, now y in sm ruin. Moss-covered bridges spanned crystallireams, their waters refleg the devastation around them. Despite the scars of battle, the nd still breathed with an eerie beauty—like a wounded beast refusing to succumb.

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

  Behind her, hushed voices bickered.

  “Oi, I swear to the gods, Captain’s ponytail swayed exactly five timeters just now. That means she’s irritated,” said Jerik, a nky 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 ihought.”

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

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

  “You’re all insufferable,” she muttered.

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

  Before she could threaten to reassigo triy, 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 firmed dead or missing. A tragedy, but it could have been much worse. The Iron Revenants hadn’t sought to destroy them; they had been searg 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 sihe battle, yet the work had only just begun.

  A familiar voice called to her.

  “Captain Bckstark, you should see this.”

  Anya turo 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 y strewn about. The Revenants’ power suits—hulking ptes of patchworked metal infused with ic magic—had been torn apart itle. 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 fn, its design unfamiliar.

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

  North. Toward the Embercd Rebels—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-phen this was no random attack.

  —-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The infirmary urposed town hall, its wooden beams cracked but sturdy, the st of herbal poultices thi the air. The glow of alchemiterns cast a soft light on the iheir groans blending with murmured prayers from healers tending their wounds.

  Anya’s boots barely made a sound as she stepped inside. She wasn’t sure why she had e—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 submissiohe moment he saw her, his sharp eyes softened with an undeniable warmth.

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

  “I’ve done what I , my lord.” Her tone was measured, professional. “I came to che your dition.”

  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 presen Castle Eldenreach. “She is safe in Vallorien. She's a guest in castle Eldenreach.”

  Cedric exhaled, relief fshing 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 ride 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.”—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The ruins of Bckfrost Keep loomed over the northern tundra like the bones of some long-fotten giant. Its towers, weathered by time and war, jutted into the sky like brokeh, while faded carvings along the stone hi an age before the Dominion's fall. Cold winds howled through its empty halls, whisperis of an empire that once ruled the stars. The air was thick with the st of damp stone and old ash, remnants of a final battle fought long ago. Shattered murals lihe corridors, depig figures radiant armor standing defiant against an unseen foe—history’s fotten heroes, erased by time. The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional creak of a stoling us ow, as if the keep itself mours lost glory.

  Lyrius Drais stood beh the fractured arches of the keep’s great hall, his iridest silver hair catg the dim torchlight. The flickering fmes cast long shadows across his sharp features, making his golden eyes gleam like molteal. Before him, a semicirbercd scouts k, their reprave. Their armor, once polished to a mirror sheen, was now scuffed aed, bearing the marks of tless skirmishes. The air between them crackled with tension, a palpable weight that even the howling wind could not dispel.

  “The Starfe is not in Elderwynd,” one scout firmed, 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 Bckmere grunted, his battle-worn halberd resting against the ground. The on’s bde was nicked and scarred, a testament to the tless battles it had seen. Wulfric himself was a mountain of a man, his broad shoulders and thick arms speaking of a lifetime spent in bat. 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, Drais,” 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 cirg its prey. “Trust me, Lord Wulfric,” he said, his voice smooth and anding. “The Starfe is near. With it, we break our s.”

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

  Lyrius’s smile faded, repced by a look of solemn uanding. 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 her good nor evil—it simply is. And in the hands of a righteous man, it be a force for salvation.”

  Wulfric’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Lyrius pressed on, his voice gaining iy. “Think of your daughter,” he said, his words cutting through Wulfric’s defenses like a bde. “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, stirriions he had long buried. He waue, to deny the truth in Lyrius’s words, but he couldn’t. The memory of his daughter’s face haunted him, a stant 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 vi, “is why you’ve lost. Not because you cked strength or ce, 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 uhe weight of Lyrius’s words. He wao 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 unfiving pce, 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 uanding. The Starfe is our key to freedom, to a world where men like you don’t have to lose everything they hold dear. But to cim it, we must be willing to do what others ot.”

  Wulfric looked at him, his eyes searg for any hint of deceit. But all he saw was a man who believed in his cause, illing 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, ohat could easily lead to more pain and disappoi. But it was also the first step toward something greater.

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

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