The world burned red.

  The smoke had thickened into walls. The sky was lost behind flame. Bodies—metal and flesh—littered the slope like broken instruments.

  And in the center of it, Elsha stood alone.

  The brass-plated elite twitched once where it lay, its mask cracked in half, one core extinguished by the final stroke that never should have landed.

  She didn’t see the crowd gathering behind her. Didn’t hear the Hollowbound pulling back in confusion. Her breath came ragged, slow, through bloodied teeth.

  Karin reached her first.

  “Elsha,” she called, low, urgent.

  No response.

  Karin stepped closer. “Elsha, he’s gone.”

  Elsha’s hand gripped her blade tighter—knuckles pale, bloodied. The light from the burning carts flickered across her face, dancing across eyes that refused to cry.

  Then, from the east, thunder rolled—not weather, but war.

  A signal flare cut the clouds.

  More Hollowbound descended the slope.

  And behind them, from the ridge—

  Lucian.

  Unburned. Unrushed. A lance in hand and war in his eyes.

  At his side, Varzen walked like a shadow reborn, his damaged arm still wrapped, magic curling from his other hand like ink in water.

  And behind them, silent and measured, one of the Elite.

  Her cloak swayed around her like coiled tension. Glass shards—long, jagged, unnaturally smooth—orbited her shoulders, each tethered by thin, barely visible strands of filament etched with brass runes. Sparks snapped between her fingers as she walked, and the air around her shimmered—just enough to blur her outline.

  She moved like she’d been waiting for this.

  They walked, straight toward Karin, Elsha, and the ashes where Kivas had fallen.

  Varzen stepped through the haze, eyes narrowing as the figures ahead came into view.

  Karin.

  And beside her… someone else.

  Before he could even speak, a blade came flashing from the smoke.

  Fast.

  Too fast.

  He raised his arm instinctively—black tendrils burst from his palm, catching the strike just in time. The force behind it pushed him back half a step.

  He blinked.

  It was a girl.

  Bloodied. Focused. Silent.

  Her eyes didn’t blink.

  Her blade came again.

  Slash—twist—stab. A blur of motion. Not wild, but honed. Grief forged into muscle memory.

  “Ah… I didn’t even notice you, that day,” Varzen muttered, a wry smile twitching. “Guess that was a mistake.”

  He flicked his fingers—the tendrils shot forward, coiling like vipers.

  But she leapt clear before they struck, kicking off a broken cart, spinning in midair, landing light. Her boots barely touched the dirt before she launched again.

  Varzen caught the next strike with a raised arm—metal clanged against dark energy.

  “Fierce little thing,” he said, smirking. “But you’re not—”

  Flame.

  A sharp burst of white heat tore past him—close enough to singe his shoulder. Not as wild as before. But it made him flinch.

  He turned.

  Karin stood at the edge of the clearing, palm still smoking.

  His smirk wavered.

  “Still like to burn people, huh?” he growled.

  Karin didn’t answer.

  And Elsha didn’t wait.

  The moment Varzen looked away, her blade cut up—fast—catching the side of his wrapped arm. A clean vertical slash.

  “Argh—dammit—” Varzen stepped back, grimacing.

  Another flame surged toward him.

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  But this time—

  Gold light.

  A dome shimmered into place, catching the blast mid-air and deflecting it in a harmless arc.

  Lucian stepped forward, calm, untouched. His silver armor glinted behind the flicker of the barrier, the runes on his chest faintly glowing.

  He didn’t even glance at Varzen.

  His eyes were locked on Karin.

  “Never thought I’d see you again,” he said, voice quiet.

  Karin’s jaw tightened.

  “Why did you do this?” she demanded. “Why all of this?”

  Lucian’s gaze didn’t shift. “For you.”

  “What—?”

  But Elsha didn’t wait for the conversation.

  She lunged.

  This time—something whistled.

  Glass.

  A shard shot through the air like a dart of lightning—too fast to dodge.

  It caught her across the abdomen. Not deep. But enough to spin her midair and send her crashing into the dirt.

  “Elsha!” Ysar’s voice cracked as he ran toward her.

  She growled, pushing herself up before he reached her.

  “I’m going to kill him,” she said—low, steady.

  It wasn’t rage in her voice.

  It was intent.

  Ysar reached out. “Elsha, you need to calm down. These people aren’t—”

  “Can you do that?” she snapped, eyes cutting to him. “Did you see Kivas?”

  Ysar faltered.

  She stood fully, turned, and locked eyes with the woman behind the glass.

  The elite stepped into view, calm and precise. Her glass shards hovered around her shoulders like orbiting weapons—thin threads of brass glinting in the smoke. Her hand crackled faintly.

  Elsha didn’t hesitate.

  She jumped again.

  And this time, she didn’t miss.

  The woman stepped into the clearing.

  Glass floated in a slow orbit around her—jagged shards spun on hair-thin filaments of glowing brass wire. Each piece pulsed faintly with planar current, shifting in elegant rhythm. It wasn’t a weapon.

  It was a warning.

  Elsha didn’t wait to understand it.

  She moved.

  No shout. No signal. Just grit and motion. Her boots tore into the earth as she surged forward, blade drawn low.

  The glassborn’s expression barely changed. A flick of her fingers.

  The shards responded.

  Two darted ahead—one slicing low toward Elsha’s knee, another angling for her throat. Not thrown. Guided. They moved like snakes with steel edges.

  Elsha ducked under the first, angled her blade to meet the second—CLANG!—a ringing impact that sent pain lancing down her arm.

  “Wait—Elsha!” Ysar shouted behind her.

  She didn’t wait.

  Three more shards fanned outward, then snapped inward like closing teeth. Elsha spun through them, barely clearing a mid-air slice that tore a line down her side. Another grazed her shoulder.

  Still she pressed forward.

  A shard lanced past her head.

  She didn’t blink.

  She lunged—blade flashing—only for a fourth shard to cut beneath her feet, forcing her to twist mid-strike. Her momentum faltered.

  The glassborn hadn’t moved.

  She didn’t need to.

  Her shards fought for her.

  Ysar landed beside Elsha just as another piece screamed toward her back. His shortblade met it midair with a screech of metal and glass—redirecting it into a tree trunk where it stuck, quivering.

  “Are you trying to get killed?” he growled.

  “They killed Kivas!” Elsha snapped.

  “They’ll kill you next!”

  But she didn’t listen.

  Lightning flared—sudden, bright. It didn’t come from the woman, but from the shards themselves. They lit with current, arcs jumping between them in sharp flashes, weaving a web around her.

  “She’s charging it—move!” Ysar shouted.

  He lunged in low, trying to flank. One shard curved back like a falcon and slammed toward his chest. He blocked it, barely—but his arm went numb on impact.

  The glassborn watched. Silent. Measured.

  Elsha didn’t stop.

  She broke right, took a shallow cut across her thigh, but used it—threw herself into a sliding sweep. Her sword sang low toward the woman’s legs—

  The shards snapped inward.

  Elsha twisted—but not enough. One cut across her side. Another ripped a shallow gash along her forearm. Blood splattered the dirt.

  But she was already moving.

  She gritted her teeth, gripped her bleeding hand tighter around the hilt—and flung it forward. Her own blood sprayed with the swing—catching a shard mid-air.

  The blood struck the planar filament.

  It faltered.

  Only slightly—but the control wavered.

  Elsha pushed. She spun with it, blade cutting wide—shifting through the tiny opening.

  And for the first time—

  She touched the glassborn.

  Not deep. Not deadly. A shallow slash across the shoulder.

  But it made her stumble.

  The other shards reeled close—tightening around their wielder in sudden defense.

  Elsha fell back, panting, her arms shaking.

  Ysar grabbed her, half-dragging her behind a tree as another shard buried itself in the bark where her head had been.

  “You can’t win this alone,” he hissed. “She’s a damned weapon system.”

  Elsha wiped blood from her brow. Her eyes didn’t blink.

  And again, she rushed in.

  Lucian’s footsteps echoed across the scorched ground.

  The war still burned around them—but here, in this clearing, it was quiet. Almost reverent.

  His silver armor gleamed with dust and soot, yet not a single scratch marred its surface. The lance he held pulsed faintly with old royal glyphs—etched deep and glowing soft gold.

  Karin stood her ground, every nerve drawn tight.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

  Lucian smiled—slow, calm. “You shouldn’t be. The only one to fear here is you, flame-touched.”

  He stepped forward. The glow of the Flame Heart, embedded in his chestplate, flickered faintly—as if it sensed her presence.

  “You feel it, don’t you?” he said. “Even from here. That pull. That resonance. It knows you.”

  She said nothing.

  Lucian’s eyes stayed locked on hers. “I searched for you. For years. For someone like you. Didn’t realize I’d missed you by barely a hand’s reach.”

  “Don’t take another step,” she warned.

  But he didn’t stop.

  A burst of flame surged from her palm.

  A golden shield shimmered into place before him, deflecting the blast. The fire arced wide—nearly striking Varzen, who stood further off, arms crossed and grinning.

  “That’s not all you’ve got, is it?” Lucian said.

  Karin’s jaw tightened.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “You,” Lucian said. “Your power. This world is sick. I.. you are the cure it fears.”

  Karin stepped back, her stance guarded. “No one in their right mind would follow someone like you.”

  “I did what was necessary.” His voice didn’t rise. “Change never asks permission.”

  Flames began to curl along her knuckles—quiet, steady. “You think you’re a god?”

  Lucian paused. Then scoffed softly—so faint only she could hear it.

  “A god?” he murmured.

  He didn’t explain.

  Instead, he raised a hand—open-palmed. Calm. Reaching.

  “Come with me.”

  Karin’s fire flared, brighter now.

  “No.”

  Lucian’s expression didn’t shift. But the tip of his lance angled forward, just slightly.

  “I didn’t want it to come to this,” he said.

  Then—

  The earth cracked.

  A jagged spike of ice erupted where he stood—forcing him to leap back, cloak flaring.

  Isolde stepped forward, emerging from the mist and ash—shoulders squared, frost still clinging to her sleeve.

  She moved between Karin and Lucian.

  “You?” Karin’s voice faltered, stunned.

  A second later, Zafran landed beside her, mist magic still glowing faintly across his shoulders—green and blue threads pulsing through his veins.

  “Karin,” he said, voice steady, “stay back.”

  But Karin exhaled, long and slow.

  Then she stepped forward.

  “No.”

  The flame rose behind her—not wild, but controlled. Like wings folding out from her spine.

  Lucian didn’t flinch.

  He smiled.

  “Lady Isolde. Balin’s son. And the flame-touched.” He turned his head slightly, calling over his shoulder. “Varzen, this is almost poetic.”

  Varzen stepped forward from the smoke, lightning curling around his fingers.

  The air cracked.

  The battle hadn’t begun.

  But the moment had.