Above the blood-soaked streets, the wind shrieks as wings beat against the smoke.

Suddenly, Muv dives from the sky, her staff glowing faintly, her other arm gripping Velira around the waist before the young lady can protest. The ground falls away beneath them, the battlefield shrinking into a whirl of chaos below.

"Retreat!" Muv's's voice cracks as she shouted, her hair whipping violently in the wind. "Ashedge warriors—fall back!"

The order ripples like thunder through the battlefield. What remains of the Ashedge formation begins pulling away, some limping, some dragging wounded kin, others covering the retreat with bloodied blades. Their disciplined withdrawal is nothing short of miraculous amid the collapse.

Velira thrashes against Muv's hold, her voice sharp with fury. "Muv! What are you doing?! Why are we retreating? Put me down this instant!"

Muv's grip only tightens, her tone harsh, carrying the weight of command. "Lady Velira, it's our defeat this time. Look around you!" She gestures with a jerk of her head, her eyes narrowing against the smoke. "Our warriors are dying fast. Do you want to kill every last one who came here for you?"

Velira's retort dies in her throat. Her eyes sweep below.

The city is gone. Flames climb like serpents from broken houses. The inner walls have crumbled, monsters pouring through like a flood. Her clansmen—her people—are cut down one after another, their courage swallowed by sheer numbers.

Her anger falters, her voice small now. "…This- this..."

But then her gaze, frantic and searching, freezes.

Amidst the sea of monsters, moving with calm precision, she spots a familiar silhouette.

Velira's breath catches. Her bow almost slips from her grip.

That face. That aura.

Karnessa.

Her mind stalls, disbelief crashing through her like ice water. "No…" Her lips tremble, sound barely escaping. "Why… why is she here?"

Karnessa—once shy and silent—now moves across the battlefield like a seasoned killer. She cuts down Ashedge warriors with a face as steady and cold as stone.

Velira's thoughts whirl, stumbling, breaking. She… she was his slave. Alix's. A monster bound to him. She should always be at his side unless—

The realization hits her like a blade to the chest.

Unless Alix let her go.

Or Alix… died.

Velira's vision blurs, her mind flooding with panic. No. Not possible. Not him.

Just imagining Alix dead makes her chest tighten, her body seize, her mind blank.

She doesn't even hear Muv's voice calling her name over the wind.

Velira's lips move soundlessly as she stares at Karnessa.

"…Impossible."

Her heart pounds in her ears, louder than the battlefield, louder than the screams, louder than the fire.

----

Smoke rolls across the ruins of Lefast like a living thing, curling through broken stone and shattered gates. The clash of steel has thinned to scattered cries, the desperate roars of men who refuse to yield.

The Ashedge warriors are gone—pulled back by Muv's command. What remains on the streets are the last soldiers of Lefast, backs pressed against the ruins of their own city.

"Hold the line!" a battered captain shouts, his arm bleeding freely, sword trembling in his grip. "For Lefast! For the kingdom!"

A dozen voices rise with him, ragged but fierce. They form a thin wall of shields and spears, eyes blazing with hopeless defiance.

The monsters crash into them like a tide. Claws rake against shields, fangs bite into steel, and spells light up the night. One by one, the defenders fall. A soldier screams as he's dragged down, his blood painting the stones. Another breaks rank, only to be caught by a winged beast that tears him apart mid-air.

Still, they fight.

"I won't run!" one soldier bellows, hacking through a monster's throat before a spear pierces his chest. "This is our city—" His words cut short in a gurgle as he collapses.

The captain staggers, shield splitting in two beneath a monstrous hammer strike. He looks around—the men who stood with him moments ago are either dying, already dead, or thrown to the ground in surrender.

Monsters circle the last cluster of defenders. Some soldiers drop their weapons, raising their trembling hands. Others glare with tear-streaked faces, choosing death over shame.

"Drop your blades," a monstrous voice snarls, reverberating through the street. "Those who yield live. Those who resist—feed the earth."

A few weapons clatter to the ground. Others cling tightly until they're ripped from cold, lifeless fingers.

The captain coughs blood, falling to his knees. His sword slips from his hand, clinking against stone. His last words are hoarse but steady. "…Forgive me, Lefast."

Claws tear through him.

Silence follows.

The final defenders of Lefast are gone—slain or shackled.

Above the burning ruins, a monstrous standard rises. The banner of Erevaris unfurls against the smoke, its colors stark against the flames.

Lefast City has fallen.

Inside Lefast, the fires still roar, but the screams have dulled into silence. The battle is over.

Outside the broken walls, Nyssara, Thurn, and Vertha stand like dark sentinels, their voices carrying authority as they direct the monsters. Some pile the corpses into heaps, others drag prisoners into pens, while the rest scour the streets for anything of value. The city is theirs, and their discipline ensures the conquest doesn't descend into chaos.

Sorin moves apart from them, her cloak brushing ash and blood as she leads a dozen hulking monsters through the ruined avenues. Their heavy steps make the cracked stone groan, their eyes burning faintly as they follow her every gesture.

The city lord's residence looms ahead, half-charred but still standing. Its gate lies torn from its hinges, the courtyard littered with broken guards. Sorin wastes no time, striding into the grand hall, down the corridor, and finally into the reinforced chamber beneath the manor—the safe chamber.

The heavy doors are already split open. Inside, the air smells of oil, dust, and gold. Piles of coins glimmer in the torchlight, spilling from overturned chests. Weapons and trinkets lie scattered on the shelves, relics and heirlooms of generations past.

Sorin sweeps her gaze over it all with calm detachment, her eyes narrowing slightly. She raises a hand and gestures to the monsters.

"Take all the gold coins," she orders, her voice clipped and commanding. "Carry them back to the main camp. Every chest, every pouch—don't leave a single coin here."

The monsters obey instantly, lumbering forward to gather the treasure. The sound of clinking metal fills the chamber as heavy claws scoop up wealth beyond measure.

One of the lesser beasts hesitates, staring at a rack of ornate weapons glittering with enchantments. Sorin notices and speaks sharply, cutting the air.

"Leave the rest. Sir Gander's orders were clear—gold first. Nothing else matters until it's secured."

She walks over to a chest, brushing her gloved fingers through the pile of coins. Her tone drops into something resembling thought, half to herself, half to the monsters.

"There's only over two hundred thousand here," she says flatly. "Not that much, considering the size of this city." Her eyes flick toward the shelves, lingering on a gem-studded crown and a staff wrapped in silver. "Some of these items could fetch far more than a chest of coins."

-----

A few days later.

The carriage rattles along the stone road, its wheels heavy with silence. Inside, Velira sits with her back stiff, hands clenched tightly in her lap. Across from her, Muv rests with her staff propped against her shoulder, her eyes half-lidded but weary—not with sleep, but with the weight of command.

Outside, rows upon rows of warriors march beside the carriage. Thirty thousand. Once, a hundred thousand strong had set out from Ashedge with banners high and voices proud. Now only a fraction returns, limping, scarred, bandaged, hollow-eyed. Their armor is dented, their clothes torn, many leaning on spears like crutches.

The gates of Ironvale creak open, and the city comes alive. People crowd the streets, flags waving, children perched on shoulders, families pressing forward with eager eyes. A cheer rises—

"They've returned!"

"Victory! The Ashedge stand strong!"

The voices boom like thunder, echoing across stone walls. But then—silence begins to spread, slow, uneasy. The cheering falters as the crowd sees their warriors clearly.

No proud march, no lifted heads.

Just broken men and women, moving like shadows.

A boy tugs at his mother's dress. "Mama… why are they… why are they so quiet?"

The woman's smile falters. She sees the bloodstains, the torn banners, the haunted gazes. Her voice breaks. "…Because they've lost."