The roads of the Southwestern Wilds lay shattered, caravan stones splintering like the brittle bones of long-dead giants beneath Kaelen's boots. Trees leaned at impossible angles, their branches clawing upward as if pleading with the scarred sky.
The Spiral's presence here was quieter, hungrier. A serpent coiled in the dust, waiting to strike at unguarded hearts.
Kaelen adjusted the strap of his worn chestplate, his breath misting in the frigid dawn. Behind him trailed a three-person squad:
- Verris, a sharp-eyed second-year with a knack for anomaly detection.
- Mara, a stoic medic whose hands still trembled when she touched Spiral wounds.
- Grenn, a hulking brute with a suppression hammer and a grudge against anything that "twisted the natural order."
No banners. No visible flames. Trust here was earned in blood, not words.
Two Spiral surges had been reported:
1. A minor anomaly in an abandoned ghost village, haunted by memory traps that rewrote reality like ink spilled on parchment.
2. A major rift anomaly near the dry riverbed, pulsing with predatory energy—a seed gate where the Spiral could birth new horrors.
Kaelen's orders were simple: Secure survivors. Suppress breaches. Survive long enough for Vel'Thara to remember him.
The Ghost Village
The village appeared as a cluster of skeletal houses, their windows staring blindly at the ashen sky. Torn flags fluttered weakly, and glyph scars blackened the walls like burns that had never cooled. The air hummed with phantom whispers. Snippets of laughter, screams, and lullabies trapped in time.
In the village center stood a splintered monument, its base carved with a single word:
Remember.
Kaelen traced the letters, his glove catching on splinters. For a heartbeat, the monument flickered. A memory of the Shepherd's siege, of flames devouring his old squad. He blinked, and the vision dissolved.
"No active infection," Verris reported, adjusting his scanner. "Only ghost resonance."
"Mark it. Move on," Kaelen ordered, his voice flat.
They planted a glyph beacon at the monument, its light faint but persistent—a promise to the dead that their home would be reclaimed. Kaelen did not linger to mourn. Mourning was a luxury for those who hadn't bathed in Spiral blood.
Vel'Thara's War Room
Dust motes swam in the pale light filtering through barred windows. Kael sat at a scarred oak table, mission scrolls spread before him like the bones of a dissected beast. The air smelled of ink, iron, and the faint tang of Claire's ever-present dagger polish.
Lira polished her glaive nearby, its edge catching the dim light. "The Eastern Rift teams report three new fractures," she said, her tone clipped. "They're spreading faster."
Claire leaned against the wall, flipping a dagger lazily. "Send Kaelen there next. If he survives, maybe he'll finally earn that pretty scar of his."
Tiv and Jace hunched over a map, marking Spiral hotspots in green ink. "Seed gates," Tiv muttered, adjusting his cracked spectacles. "They're evolving. Adapting to our suppression tactics."
Sylva paced, restless as a caged wolf. "We need to hit them harder. Burn the roots, not the branches."
The Judge's orders hung in the air, unspoken but deafening: "Reclaim the borders. Build the new flame outward."
Kaelen's name circled the room like a ghost.
Claire tossed her dagger, embedding it in the map's edge. Directly through Kaelen's deployment sector. "If he survives that," she smirked, "maybe I'll stop scowling at his name."
Tiv snorted. "You'll still scowl. It's your default face."
Lira's lips twitched. Even Kael smiled. Thin, but real, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
They didn't hate Kaelen. But forgiveness, like healing, took time.
The Dry Riverbed
The squad arrived by dusk. The air hung colder here, dead rivestones rattling underfoot. The Ki flow twisted sideways, clawing at their senses like a feral beast.
Verris spotted it first: a Spiral fracture blooming beneath the crumbling river arch. Tiny, at first. A whisper against stone. But growing. Pulsing. Hungry.
Kaelen knelt, studying the glyphs. Older than Vel'Thara's siege. Wilder. A seed gate. A breach where the Spiral could birth new worlds.
He smiled grimly. As if he'd ever had a choice.
"Circle pattern! Suppression glyphs on my mark!"
The squad moved in fast, precise, a well-oiled machine honed by loss. Grenn slammed his hammer into the earth, fissures spiderwebbing outward. Mara chanted stabilization runes, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. Verris locked targeting sigils, his scanner whirring.
Kaelen stepped forward. Fire ignited along his veins. Not wild, but honed. Vel'Thara's flame. He drove his hand into the fractured earth, channeling raw heat into the Spiral glyphs.
The backlash shredded his nerves. Pain lanced up his arms. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and sharp, a reminder that he was still mortal.
But he held.
The ground shook. The Spiral recoiled. The gate shuddered then collapsed with a wail that echoed in the marrow of their bones.
Silence fell. The riverbed exhaled.
Verris stared at him, respect glinting in his eyes. Another soldier whispered:
"Vel'Thara holds."
Kaelen nodded. "Always."
Raka's Exile
Far away, Raka trudged eastward, the Spiral Seed a leaden weight in his chest. Ash clung to his boots like a second skin. Ghost-glyphs flickered under his own, their light dimming with each mile.
The child's voice haunted him. Not just in sleep, but in the scrape of wind over stone, the rustle of dead leaves. "Papa, come on!"
He'd begun to see them too: flickers of a small figure in the corner of his eye, always just out of reach.
Above him, the wounded sky bled starlight. New constellations gathering in the cracks, their patterns too deliberate to be chance.
Somewhere ahead, the voice called again, louder now, tinged with desperation.
He smiled, weary but sure. "I'm coming."
Vel'Thara's flame burned low but steady.
And in the cracks of the wounded sky, the stars waited.
Watched.
Prepared.