The night cracked open.

Not with sound.

With pressure.

A sudden, suffocating weight fell upon the ravine—an invisible hand pressing down on every soldier's lungs, squeezing the breath from their chests. Dust quivered in the air. Pebbles jittered on the ground. Torches dimmed as if bowing.

Atheon froze mid-step.

His elite squad froze with him.

Every instinct sharpened into a single, razor-thin conclusion.

It was here.

The Adept-tier crawler had arrived.

Not from the direction they expected.

Not from the range they prepared for.

It was already above them.

"SHIELD!" Atheon roared.

Too late.

The terrain itself exploded.

Bone and stone rained down as a colossal shape dropped from the shadows like a living guillotine. The Adept-tier crawler landed in the center of the formation, its legs digging trenches into the earth, the impact sending half the squad flying.

Some initiates were too terrified, their screams got stuck in their throat.

The marksman, atheon's long time squad mate was crushed instantly.

Another man was flung into a boulder, spine bending wrong.

Atheon hit the ground and rolled, lungs burning, ears ringing. His vision spun—but even through the blur he saw it.

The Monarch.

The swarm's thinking apex.

A hulking crawler twice the size of the others, its ribs layered in thick bone plating like a siege engine wearing a cage of ivory. Six eyes glowed with cold intelligence. There was no feeling of constant hunger, nor frenzy oozing from it, only a calculating calm.

And its presence alone felt drowning.

Lieutenant Cress, who gave the location for the monarch's position was dumbfounded. she crawled to her feet, spear raised. "Orders—!"

The Monarch moved. Not a gesture was wasted; it carried the chill certainty of a blow that could not be avoided.

A single forelimb swept sideways.

Cress didn't even scream.

Her body lifted in the air, split in half from shoulder to hip, blood fanning out in a long arch before hitting the ravine wall.

Atheon's vision sharpened instantly.

"SPREAD!" he thundered. "DON'T CLUSTER—MOVE!"

But the Monarch didn't give them the chance.

It clicked its mandibles together—once.

The air vibrated.

A pulse detonated outward like a shockwave. The nearest Initiates lifted off the ground as though gravity had been stolen from them, ribs snapping under the sudden pressure before they even hit the dirt.

Atheon barely braced in time, Soul Force hardening through his muscles, absorbing the blow. Blood ran down his nose.

He wiped it away and stood.

"Advance and stand your ground! Any coward who breaks ranks will have his skull crushed beneath my hands—For the Republic!"he hissed.

His team surged around him. At least what was left of them.

Three soldiers attacked from the flanks, two from behind. Their weapons struck with trained precision—

—and bounced off the creature's bone armor like they'd hit a fortress gate.

The Monarch didn't even turn.

It just walked forward, crushing one soldier underfoot in a wet crunch.

Atheon grimaced.

This wasn't just a monster.

"Focus the joints!" he roared. "Aim for the gaps in its plates!"

Two Initiates obeyed immediately, blades striking at the softer membranes between the plates.

The Monarch reacted this time.

A tail-blade whipped sideways faster than sound.

Both soldiers dropped—heads removed cleanly, bodies still standing for the heartbeat before they collapsed.

Atheon tightened his fist.

We can't win this.

Not alone.

Not with what remained.

He glanced at some initiates fleeing down the trail. Some stumbled, some cried, some prayed.

Time.

They only had to buy time for a while to let the calvary moving to outpost vester arrive there safely.

He sighed and raised his hand to signal retreat—

A shadow dropped beside him.

Metal-blue armor. Silver crest. Cloak trimmed in Cavendish white.

With a presence like a storm held at bay.

A second figure landed on the opposite cliff. A woman, tall, lithe, her weapon a glaive humming with pale electricity.

A third arrived silently, stepping out from behind the Monarch itself as if he'd simply walked through a different world to reach the battlefield. His eyes glowed faintly blue, cold and focused.

Three top tier Adept fighters.

Each bore the Cavendish sigil—but each was unmistakably their own force.

Atheon blinked once.

"…Cavendish Adepts? Why the fuck would nobles drag themselves into this mess unless there was something big to grab? No way saving one heir is worth all this."

The largest of the trio gave a curt nod.

"We were passing north," he said. His voice had the weight of command, but not the arrogance of nobility. "Lord Cavendish asked us to check on the outpost."

Atheon narrowed his eyes. "Coincidence?"

A faint shrug. "A request."

In truth, in his gut, Atheon understood:

Rhys' father had sent them.

Not because he cared for the outpost.

Not because he cared for the Republic's frontier.

He had his reasons for bringing them here, and Rhys Cavendish stood among them—proof that even the coldest fathers protect what matters. A noble gesture from a noble man.

The Monarch clicked.

The sound cut the conversation short.

The Cavendish Adept with the glaive spun her weapon.

"Prepare, boys." she whispered.

Atheon exhaled. Standing slowly, haggard in his steps.

"Then let's kill the bastard."

They moved as six shadows.

Atheon and his remaining squad formed the second line; the Cavendish trio formed the first.

The Monarch attacked without hesitation.

Its massive forelimb speared forward, a blur of bone meant to skewer the glaive-woman.

She pivoted sideways, the ground cracking under the force she avoided, and her glaive carved a glowing arc.

Bone shattered.

The Monarch reeled back—wounded but far from dying.

The large Cavendish Adept slammed into the creature's flank like a battering ram, crashing it into the cliffside and cracking several rib-plates.

The third Adept appeared atop the creature's back, planting a sigil with a glowing palm. Energy crackled through its body, locking several limbs momentarily.

Atheon surged in, fist impacting through the exposed joints—finally drawing true blood.

The Monarch shrieked, a deafening, mind-scraping howl that forced half the squad to their knees.

The earth shook and the cavern walls trembled.

And Atheon realized—

It wasn't a cry of pain.

It was a call.

Far across the battlefield, Bright staggered backward as the swarm surged even harder.

Estovia screamed for him to fall back.

Baggen hurled a crawler aside, chest heaving.

Bright's make shift blade cut another in half, but his arms trembled. His hair clung to his forehead, blood and sweat mixing into a burning mixture.

They had no formation left.

No line.

No hope of pushing forward.

The call of the leading monstrosities rolled through the burning ruins, vibrating through Bright's bones and ripping the strength from his legs.

He looked back at Baggen and Estovia.

Both already knew.

It was over.

"I'm out…FALL BACK!" Bright shouted.

It wasn't a tactical withdrawal.

It was survival.

The three broke into a sprint, tearing through the last thin line of crawlers and racing toward the ravine path, lungs burning, weapons hanging loose.

Behind them, the swarm closed the space where they once stood.

On the far left flank, beneath a shredded vent, Silas watched the same wave of power shudder through the earth.

His eyes widened—not from fear, but from understanding. It was the same force the captain radiated, only layered, convoluted, and sharper.

"That… was an Adept."

He hesitated only a moment.

Then slipped into the shadows and ran.

Chaos had opened a perfect path to vanish, gain strength, and survive without ever being pinned to a line of duty—or a casualty list.

He disappeared into the snowy forest without a sound.

The swarm didn't even notice him leave. Neither it nor his comrades.

At the open space,

The Monarch lunged, faster than anything that size had a right to move.

It slammed the largest Cavendish Adept into the rock wall, cracking the man's armor. Blood sprayed; his ribs buckled.

The woman with the glaive leapt, slicing at the creature's eye.

The Monarch twisted.

Her blade hit bone instead.

The third Adept unleashed a sigil that detonated beneath the creature's abdomen—but the Monarch simply crushed him with its weight, pinning him to the dirt with a sickening crunch.

Atheon shouted, sprinting in.

His grabbed a bone jutting out from th crawlers body and plunged it into a soft joint—deep, true, tearing through a tendon.

The Monarch screeched.

Its tail snapped around—faster than thought.

Atheon barely ducked.

The blade passed above his head, slicing through the skull of the soldier behind him.

The man fell without a sound.

Never to be remembered; like a character not worth a name by it's author.

The Monarch staggered, three of its legs malfunctioning, ichor pouring from several deep wounds. But it wasn't weakening.

It was evolving, adapting to their attacks, movements shifting from instinct to strategy.

The largest Adept clapped a massive hand on Atheon's shoulder.

"We end this now," he said.

Atheon nodded once.

The three Cavendish Adepts formed a triangle around the creature.

Atheon joined, forming the fourth point.

Their Soul Force sharpened, connected by purpose rather than training.

The Monarch sensed the shift.

It charged the weakest point—Atheon's.

Perfect.

Atheon braced.

"NOW!"

The sigil-Adept unleashed a blinding pillar of light that froze the Monarch mid-charge.

The glaive-woman dove beneath its chest, carving the exposed membrane in a long, brutal arc.

The large Adept slammed both fists down on its skull, driving the bone plating inward.

Atheon leapt and drove his fist—every last ounce of his soul behind the strike—into the final unprotected joint.

The blade sank to the hilt.

A long, shuddering silence filled the ravine.

The Monarch twitched.

Once.

Twice.

Then it collapsed into a heap of bone and blackened ichor, shattered by the fiercest strike from the elite adepts.

The pressure lifted.

The air returned.

The swarm broke, wavering, losing cohesion.

The siege ended.

Atheon fell to his knees, chest heaving.

The Cavendish trio stood amidst the corpse, battered, bleeding, but alive.

Atheon spat blood onto the dirt.

"We held the line long enough," he said hoarsely.

The glaive-woman nodded.

"And we arrived exactly when ordered."

Atheon frowned.

"Ordered by whom?"

The sigil-Adept glanced up at the moonlit clouds.

"Lord Cavendish," he said simply. "He sent us north to… check on someone."

"At the worst possible time?"

"At the exact time necessary."

Atheon didn't reply.

He already understood.

The Cavendish family didn't protect outposts.

They protected assets.

The battle had barely ended, but soon it would turn into a guessing game for the cores—likely the very reason they had been sent here in the first place.

At this juncture, even without jurisdiction the legality of their act was just going to be a matter of power not morality.

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