The warmth of sweet mana wrapped around him like a blanket pulled from childhood—a false comfort against the brutal tally of damage. The torrent surged inside, raging and wild, not yet ready to let him go.

  Kael’s body twitched. His left eye refused to open—crushed. The orbital socket shattered.

  His mind, ever mechanical, began its brutal calculus.

  Left arm: Pulverized.

  Ribs: Multiple fractures.

  Legs: Toes tried, failed—numb. Spinal damage. Probable.

  He tasted blood.

  His one good eye, bloodshot and swimming, strained to focus. Shapes moved above him—yelling, shouting. Figures clashed. Voices rose in argument. Someone stood over him. Tall. Radiating warmth. For a moment, there was comfort.

  Then—gone.

  The warmth fled like a spirit.

  His vision cleared just enough to see Brother Thomas.

  Kael’s lips parted, dry and trembling. The word escaped, hoarse and thin.

  “Thomas?.”

  But the memory surged faster than breath.

  Brother Thomas’s head tumbling across shattered stone.

  Eyes wide. Mouth caught mid-prayer.

  The final blessing unfinished.

  His scars flared—alive with pain and purpose. He felt the pull of mana outside his body, soft and familiar—a healing spell. Instinct took over. Practice carved by war and instinct.

  He dragged the spell inward.

  Twisted it. Claimed it.

  Mana ignited like a spark hitting dry oil, latching onto the coiled storm already inside him—the stolen energy of the dead mage.

  The recovery was unnatural.

  Flesh knitted like time reversed itself.

  Bones snapped and groaned as they popped back into place, aligning with brutal precision.

  His ruined eye cleared. Vision returned.

  He wiggled his toes. He felt them.

  The fire remained.

  It raged through his veins—hot, heavy, and laced with hunger.

  The torrent inside boiled with it.

  Vile. Tempting. Powerful.

  It whispered to him.

  Let go.

  Become more.

  He refused. Barely.

  The canopy above swayed—shades of blue broken by twisting limbs. Two priests of Solanir kneeled next to him, their hands flickering with golden residual heat. Their faces were pale. Confused.

  “How...?”

  “By the Flamefather...”

  “Go see to the toughs—Lucien, Yuri, Kavari, Frank. And only after…” Kael’s voice slowed, each word deliberate, iron-hard. “…see to the traders.”

  The pause was not for drama—it was doctrine. A commandment carved into the Ironbound. His people came first.

  From where he lay, Kael’s eyes tracked movement.

  Oliver kneeled beside a half-conscious tough, applying pressure and magic to a gut wound.

  Lucien and Frank scoured the wreckage with grim efficiency—one searching for signs of life, the other for anything still worth salvaging. Their boots moved through blood and broken glass like they’d done it a hundred times. Because they had.

  Nearby, Ironbound toughs worked in practiced silence—dragging corpses, flipping over carts, killing anyone still twitching with hostile intent. No mercy. No hesitation. The work of cleaning up after slaughter was ugly, but it was theirs.

  Others gathered the surviving traders—shocked, trembling, hollow-eyed. A woman wailed, her voice raw and animal as she collapsed onto a body with familiar features now slack in death. A man screamed, clinging to a torn bundle of bloodied cloth that had once been his son. Their grief made the air vibrate. Made it harder to breathe.

  Kael didn’t flinch.

  This was war.

  It wasn’t banners and glory—it was splintered wood and spilled guts. Love turned into ruin under the weight of steel.

  This close to the barrier, they should’ve been safe. Should’ve made it.

  They didn’t.

  And to his right, Kavari held a struggling Runt in a beast kin restraint grip—hand wrapped tight around the nape of her neck, just below the skull. Runt growled, hissed, twisted—but didn’t strike. Not at Kavari. Not yet.

  Kavari met his gaze.

  Kael gave a single nod.

  She let go.

  Runt didn’t run—she launched, a blur of feral motion.

  She hit the ground beside him with a thud that rippled through his ribs, claws twitching, aura flaring like forked lightning just beneath her skin. The heat coming off her was palpable—radiant, furious, protective.

  She hovered a breath away, kneeling, trembling not from fear, but from something older. Deeper. Her hands moved above his body without touching, as if she couldn’t bear to feel him broken again.

  Her head dipped. She inhaled.

  Blood. Burned mana. Scorched flesh. His scent—but not whole.

  Kael’s breathing slow, calm.

  “…Are you crying?” he asked, the question feather-light, almost teasing.

  No answer.

  Instead, he raised his left arm—slowly. The one she’d seen mangled. Gone.

  She bit down.

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  Kael didn’t move. Didn’t resist.

  Because her teeth weren’t punishing—they were asking.

  Her bite was soft. Pressed just hard enough to be real.

  Her tongue followed, slow and searching, the heat of it grounding him more than any healing spell could.

  She was verifying what her eyes couldn’t trust—that he’d come back. That he was still Kael. Still her First Fang.

  She let go with a shaky exhale. Then her shame caught up with her grief, and her emotions twisted into rage.

  With a snarl, she slammed her fist into his chest.

  “I’m not crying, you stupid—!” Her voice cracked mid-sentence as she turned her face away and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  Kavari stood nearby, arms folded, unreadable—for once, unsure. Her gaze flicked between Kael’s arm and the trembling beast kin girl.

  “You’re really okay?” she asked at last. “Your arm was… gone. But it tastes the same.”

  Kael blinked once. Filed it away.

  Not unpacking that right now.

  With a grunt, he sat up, slinging one arm around Runt’s shoulders.

  She melted into his side.

  He scratched behind one twitching ear, and the sound that followed rolled out of her chest like thunder from deep beneath the earth.

  A low, seismic purr—somewhere between a growl and a prayer.

  Kavari flinched, hand unconsciously drifting toward her weapon.

  Kael closed his eyes, just for a heartbeat.

  “…No golem,” he muttered. “Just her.”

  Kavari’s face twisted into a knot of disbelief. Her usual hard mask was gone—replaced by raw confusion, eyes wide, lips parted, caught between awe and alarm.

  Kael almost smiled.

  Almost.

  But duty waited. The dead waited. The battlefield wasn’t done with them.

  He rose to his feet, slow but steady. Runt rose with him, shadowing his every move, her aura flickering like ghost fire across her limbs.

  Kavari took a step forward, lips parting to speak—

  “Not now,” Kael said, his voice firm but not unkind. “I’ll explain what I can. Later.”

  She paused. Then nodded, short and sharp, lips pressed thin.

  And together, they stepped once more into the smoke and ruin—into the aftermath, where blood still dried on steel and the price of survival had yet to be tallied.

  The two priests had taken the right initiative—each knelt over a fallen form, hands pressed to scorched flesh as they siphoned raw mana from the dead mage’s fractured cores. The air shimmered faintly with the residual hum of healing spells. Oliver moved among them, sleeves rolled up, not a priest but practiced—handling light wounds the triage had flagged as non-critical.

  Kael was the worst off. By all rights, he should’ve been dead.

  But this wasn’t the first time he’d walked away from something that should’ve ended him.

  Runt padded close behind him, always within arm’s reach, silent but watchful. As he moved, Kael noticed one priest’s robe bore fresh claw marks—beast kin slashes. His brow furrowed. Runt had likely been standing over his body, snarling at anything that came near. Guarding a corpse. Refusing to let anyone touch him until Kavari had dragged her off long enough for the priests to do their work and stage what now looked like a miracle.

  As he stepped into the wreckage proper, the stench of blood and fire thick in his nose, Kael saw that Lucien had the situation under control. Frank loomed nearby, quietly collecting weapons from the dead. Kael shrugged off the remains of his shredded jacket, the motion making his shoulder throb. His torn shirt exposed the ink etched into his skin—ritual tattoos stark in the light. Somewhere behind him, one of the traders gasped. He didn’t turn.

  “Any leads?” Kael asked, voice flat. “Why this caravan? Anything useful on the looters? Did we find their camp? And where’s Yuri?”

  Oliver glanced over, eyes sharp with unspoken questions, but Kael shot him a look. later.

  Lucien answered without missing a beat.

  “Minimal casualties,” Lucien said grimly.

  “Scout and two toughs—Mike, Simon, and Luke. We’ve recovered the bodies. They’re on the wagons we could recover for transport back to the Pit.”

  He shook his head.

  “If it hadn’t been for the golem and that mage, this would’ve been a clean rout. Fifty-two bodies on the field. Most of them traveling light—leathers, bone knives, short blades. Quick movers. Hit-and-fade types.”

  Kael listened in silence as Lucien continued.

  “Our scouts backtracked their trail. Found the camp—abandoned. No personal effects. No letters. Minimal food. Just this.”

  He held up a blood-smeared scrap of canvas: a crude banner depicting a quill writing across a skull.

  “We also found a sack of mana cores. No markings. No sigils. No names. Professional, but sloppy. Nothing else significant, boss.”

  Kael nodded.

  “Well done. You, Frank, Oliver—good work holding the line while I was… resting.”

  Frank approached, horns dark with dried blood. His heavy gaze fell on Kael.

  “Hell of a gamble,” he muttered. “Paid off. Good job.”

  Lucien and Oliver looked mildly confused, but Frank offered Kael a rare, approving smile. Kavari stood nearby, arms crossed, hard-eyed and silent. Runt clung to his side like a starving child to stew—clingy, feral, and deeply unsettled.

  Oliver adjusted his amber spectacles and cleared his throat.

  “Yuri volunteered for the perimeter watch. He kept muttering something… ‘never taking a coin’ or something to that effect.”

  Kael’s jaw tightened. He gave a short nod.

  “Understood. Let the toughs know—we move in one. Have someone run ahead and prep spare rooms in the Iron District for the traders. And tell the handlers to question them gently. I want names, travel routes, anything they saw.”

  “What about the bodies?” Oliver asked. “Their kin. Friends. Some are… asking.”

  Kael didn’t hesitate.

  “No time. We’ve lingered too long already. With that much mana cast, we’ll be drawing in all kinds of Fadefall trash—Hollowbacks, Bleeders. Maybe even a Dreadborn or two. If they want to carry the dead, they carry them or put them on the remaining wagons. We’re moving in a tight ring—toughs to the outer line. No gaps. No stragglers.”

  His voice rose at the end—sharp, commanding.

  “Snap to it.”

  The field came alive with motion. Toughs barked orders, traders scrambled to gather their wounded, and the grim procession toward the containment barrier began. Kael didn’t move until the last cart creaked into line.

  Only then did he follow—Runt at his side, her aura still flickering, her claws never far.

  As they neared the massive teleportation array—its granite overhang etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the Solinar light—Kael caught Yuri’s voice.

  “Why aren’t there any Pikey or Imperials out here?” Yuri asked, his eyes scanning the open ground. “Shouldn’t they be stationed this far out?”

  Oliver adjusted his coat, clearly uncomfortable beneath the sweltering heat.

  “No,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “The lower districts are managed by district lords and gang-run militias. Beater crews, mostly. The mid-districts—where the artisans and traders are—those are where you’ll see Pikey patrols. And the Imperials? They're in the Upper Ring—the royal quarter, noble estates, and the castle. They don’t bother with us.”

  He gave a half-smile, dry and bitter.

  “Why would they? There’s a containment barrier keeping the monsters out. Out here’s just too much ground to police, and not enough coin to care.”

  “Then why did we have scouts out there in the first place?” came the sharp follow-up.

  Lucien didn’t even blink. “Because there’s more than just monsters in the wilds. People. Beast kin. The kind that don’t care who you are or what side you’re on.”

  He folded his arms, voice calm but ironclad. “The Pikeys don’t care about the lower districts. They only care about keeping the three bridges into the middle districts secure. That’s their mandate.

  Everything else? Not their problem. Boss wants eyes out here, so we have eyes out here.”

  Yuri’s voice cut in, tense. “Then how come the Pikeys never stop us when we cross the bridges?”

  Kael looked at him. Saw the tight grip on his gear, the too-quick glance toward the shadows. The battle was still running hot through his veins. He was asking questions to stay ahead of the fear.

  Kael didn’t blame him.

  He answered with the same steady calm that kept the Ironbound together.

  “Because we don’t give them a reason to. We walk like we belong. We move like we have purpose. And when we cross that bridge, they see something in us they don’t want to test.”

  Oliver looked over. “That—and we bribe them with a lot of coin.”

  Lucien smirked. Frank gave a low grunt that might’ve been a laugh. Even Yuri cracked a faint smile.

  The tension thinned, just a little.

  Kael felt the familiar sting across his skin—his scars flaring faintly.

  Oliver drew a breath and pulled mana from the air. With a murmured word, a flickering flame sparked into existence in his palm.

  “Out here, beyond the barrier, I can cast like normal,” he explained. “Inside the city, only glyph work tapping the leyline can manage anything consistent and or evokers feed by mana cores can work.

  The mana stored in the core keeps them active. The barrier feeds from Solanir during the day. That’s what keeps it stable through the night.”

  Kavari, who’d been listening in quiet thought, added in a soft voice.

  “Mages are stronger during the day. It’s why that battle-mage earlier kept his face lifted as he cast—he was drawing power from Solanir as much as he could through his eyes.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “Right. Human and elven magic thrives under daylight. Not everyone can cast, but those who can usually have eyes attuned to Solinar—sensitive to its light. Spellmark or sight mark as its called depending on the region. That sensitivity helps channel mana through internal conduits more efficiently. Still, nearly everyone carries some latent mana, even if they’ll never use it.”

  He adjusted his glasses, voice dropping slightly as the weight of history entered his tone.

  “Elves are born with stronger bloodlines for spell work—more natural mages per head—but their numbers are a shadow of what they once were. Most of their great houses were lost two centuries ago, during the failed theocratic coup against what was then called the Tetra Crown.”

  A pause.

  “The aftermath reshaped the realm. One throne fell, and the others rebranded themselves as the Triune Crown. What most people know today.”

  Kael, half-listening until then, cut in—his voice low.

  “Aura’s different. Strongest under the moons.”

  His tone sharpened with the weight of memory as Kavari and Runt glance at him.

  “That’s why the beast kin love the Fadefall. Twin moons. Low ley line pressure. They peak then. Stronger, faster, harder to kill.”

  He gave a glance toward Yuri.

  “It’s what defines the southern wars. The Imperials strike by day. The beast kin hit hard at night.”

  “And if you ever face a mage,” Kael said, voice rough as gravel, “just remember—it’s simple.”

  A smile curled across his face—wide, feral, and savage.

  “Go for the eyes.”