For a heartbeat, the Reskala faltered, horror cutting through discipline. The sound of their own devotion, their own last words, now carried in the mouths of abominations.
Their voices stilled.
Their bodies froze.
And the rift took notice.
The tear widened, and from within spewed forth a packmother. Monstrous in her bulk, limbs twisted, bones protruding. Kailorien sank into Thurisaz, gritting his teeth as the force of activation clawed at his ribs. Like a band, crushing, pounding. His vision turned crimson, strength and stamina overriding burn-out, and just as he prepared to launch himself at the enormous beast, a battlecry sounded from his left.
Thessia, flying like a Glider through the air. Not with wings. Withwill—courage, the audacity to leap into the maw of death itself and hope to come away unscathed. She collided with the packmother, stabbing her glaive into its chest. With a savage yank, she pulled upwards, eviscerating the creature from within.
“Ressssh…Resssssh…Resssssh…”
Still chanting, the thing crashed to the ground in a heap of writhing limbs and pulverized bone, black ichor foaming from three different mouths. Thessia spat on its corpse, using her foot to hold the body still as she ripped her glaive free.
The rift shuddered.
Preparing.
And then light.
Everywhere.
It broke the sky open.
The battlefield faltered—men, beasts, Gliders—all eyes drawn upward. Wings stilled mid-beat. The varkhounds hissed and recoiled, shrieking as they tried to turn and run back to the cover of the walls. The light burned their slimy bodies as they ran.
Everything fell silent.
He whirled, expecting glaives aimed for his throat. But the Gliders were still. Immobilized. Staring upwards like they’d just seen the faces of their gods. Confused, Kailorien looked up. Above the smoke, cutting through the Cycle of Dark, a brilliance burst across the sky. White fire, not gold, not blue—white,trailing stars with every beat of colossal wings.
Astenos.
Through the pitch and the darkness, his Kelavari war steed flew. But not his stallion of campaign and conquest. This beast blazed with another’s will, veins glowing molten silver, mane and tail bleeding mist into the void. His wings weren’t forged of feather and bone, but of pure starlight.
On his back was Auryn.
Small.
Radiant.
Divine.
Her hair whipped behind her in the wind, arms lifting above her head. Silver mana gathered between her hands, the orb growing and growing until it was larger than Astenos.
For one heartbeat, Stonewake knew silence.
A single whisper cut the air.
“Starborn…”
Another picked it up, sharper, terrified. “Starborn!”
Then it spread like wildfire, panic rolling through the Glider ranks.
“Starborn! It’s the weapon! The weapon of the Flaeme!”
Until it broke into a unified shriek.
