The Monarch's corpse steamed in the night sky .

Its enormous body lay slumped like a toppled fortress, ichor seeping into the cracked ravine floor. The night was quiet again. Atheon stood with blood drying on his jaw, Soul Force flickering weakly across his skin.

Behind him, what remained of his squad spread out, shaky and pale. Half of them were vomiting. Three sat with backs against stone, bleeding from ears or nose. Two were praying. All were staring at the dead Monarch like it might rise again.

The Cavendish Adepts stood atop the corpse—three silhouettes carved in moonlight.

The large one wiped the blood from his plated gauntlet.

The glaive-woman twirled her blade once and let its hum fade.

The sigil-Adept knelt calmly, placing two fingers along one of the creature's broken ribs as if reading currents only he could sense.

Atheon exhaled— not in relief, but at the simple fact that they had survived that walking, thinking doomsday.

But the true problems, the ones he couldn't strike or stare down, the ones tangled in the shifting haze of his political ambiguity, were only now taking shape.

He opened his mouth to speak—directing his question to the large man.

"What about the people you saw moving south?" A thread of desperation crept into his voice.

The large adept paused, then relented, offering him a retelling of what they had witnessed on their way here.

FLASHBACK

The adepts had abandoned their post under the orders of the patriarch's brother, Major Roland Cavendish—a decorated officer of the Republic, if one ignored the trail of scandals clinging to his name. They had traveled in haste, lured by the promise of a worthy battle, the chance to rescue the major's heir, and the prospect of undocumented cores.

Everyone knew that cores earned in a large-scale engagement were recorded on the Army Merit List, with priority given to active troops when the spoils were finally sold.

But where they were headed, the outpost's logistical network had already been shattered, and rebuilding it would take time. That delay created a narrow window for the illegal work they intended to pull off. The fact that only one adept was stationed there was an added advantage.

They first encountered one Sergeant Tyven, surrounded by a handful of workers and fledglings.

The Sergeant had been the one leading the fleeing workers.

"KEEP MOVING!" Tyven bellowed, shoving a crawler away from his path. "GET BACK!! RETREAT!! IF YOU STOP, YOU DIE!"

The crawlers shrieked as they crawled over broken stone, gaining speed.

The fledglings stumbled over roots and ice. Some cried. One fell and Tyven physically dragged him upright.

He knew he couldn't hold the line.

He knew they wouldn't outrun the swarm.

Then—

A boom of displaced air.

A gust that smelled faintly of ozone.

Tyven nearly tripped as a shadow dropped into the ravine ahead, towering, broad-shouldered, armored in metal-blue.

One of the Cavendish Adepts had decided to offer assistance.

The large one.

He didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

He stepped forward, cracked his knuckles, and when the first crawler lunged—

His fist met it.

The crawler detonated into splinters of bone and mist.

Another Adept appeared beside him on the cliff wall, descending as lightly as leaf-fall—this one the glaive-woman. Her weapon carved arcs of light, each swing slicing a crawler clean in half as she danced across the rocks like she weighed nothing.

The third appeared last—walking out of the shadows behind the swarm, as if he had been waiting there. The sigil-Adept lifted a single hand.

A runic circle flared beneath all twenty crawlers at the rear.

A heartbeat later—

A vertical wave of light tore upward, ripping them apart.

Tyven stood frozen.

The fledglings stared with wide eyes.

"Move," the large Adept said without turning. "We'll handle the rest."

Tyven swallowed and obeyed.

As the fledglings fled toward Outpost Vester, he glanced back only once.

The three Adepts were sweeping through the crawlers like scythes through dry grass—not fighting, not struggling, executing, their movements sharp and efficient. In minutes, the entire swarm behind Tyven had been wiped clean.

And as he ran, the sergeant understood:

They didn't descend on Grim Hollow for duty. They didn't come because the Republic beckoned.

They came for Rhys Cavendish. That was the only life that held weight in their eyes; the rest might as well have been ash.

The soldiers felt that truth sink into their bones—Bessia, Duncan, all of them.

BACK TO THE PRESENT

The Cavendish Adepts were already moving.

They were not checking for survivors.

Not assessing threats.

Not helping clear the battlefield.

No.

They were picking through the corpse of the Monarch.

The large Adept planted his gauntlets into the monster's spine and tore.

Bone cracked.

Ichor spilled.

A cavity opened.

A low murmur rippled through the Initiates behind Atheon.

"Are they… taking the cores?"

"Captain, they can't— That belongs to the Republic!"

"That's not regulation!"

"That's theft!"

Their protests were little more than strained hisses. None dared raise their voice loudly enough for the Adepts to hear.

Atheon didn't turn.

He didn't scold them.

He didn't agree with them either.

He simply watched the Adepts continue.

The sigil-Adept slipped an arm deep into the Monarch's inner rib cage.

The glaive-woman snapped a smaller crawler corpse in half with her boot and pried a secondary core free from its spine.

The Initiates tensed.

One stepped forward—

And Atheon grabbed his shoulder, squeezing hard.

"Stand. Down."

"But sir—!"

"Do you want to die tonight?" Atheon growled.

The initiate swallowed.

Everyone knew the truth:

Even weakened, even injured, any one of those three Adepts could kill the entire ravine's survivors if provoked.

And the Republic wouldn't punish them for it.

Not if they were Cavendish.

The large Adept ripped something free—a fist-sized, still-glowing mass of crystallized Soul Essence. The Monarch's primary core.

It pulsed once in his grip, sending a ripple through the canyon walls.

The Initiates stared, livid but helpless.

"That alone… could elevate the power of anyone here to a high degree …" someone whispered.

"That's worth a small city…"

"Captain … this isn't right."

"It's also not your call," Atheon replied, voice like sandpaper. "Look away if you don't want to feel powerless."

But no one looked away.

Because witnessing injustice was a reflex wired into the soul—especially when you couldn't stop it.

The glaive-woman hopped down from the Monarch's shoulder, wiping ichor from her blade.

"Enough," she said to her comrades. "We have what we need."

The sigil-Adept lifted his head.

"Not yet."

He scanned the ravine.

Then spoke one name:

"Rhys."

A silence fell.

Atheon almost snorted.

Of course.

That was the official reason they came.

"Find him," the sigil-Adept said flatly.

The trio fanned out—like wolves scenting blood.

RHY'S LOCATION — DISCOVERY

Rhys Cavendish wasn't hard to locate.

He was slumped behind a broken cart, half-conscious, one arm limp, his jacket torn and bloodied from one of his companions earlier improvised med-care. But he was alive.

The large Adept approached him first. He didn't kneel nor ask any questions. He simply placed a hand beneath Rhys' arm and hauled him to his feet with as much gentleness as a mountain lifting a twig.

"Lord Rhys," he said.

Rhys blinked blearily, vision swimming.

"…The major sent you?"

"Why else would we be here," the sigil-Adept answered, appearing behind him.

Rhys winced. "What of the rest. Where—"

"Some are alive," the glaive-woman answered. "Not our concern."

Rhys opened his mouth to argue—

But the sigil-Adept tapped his forehead lightly.

A rune pulsed.

Rhys collapsed.

"Hey!" an Initiate shouted. "You can't just—!"

Atheon slammed his fist into the ground, shaking the stones.

"ENOUGH!"

The Initiate shrank instantly.

The large Adept hoisted Rhys in a fireman's carry.

"We are done here."

And like smoke caught in wind—

They moved.

The three Adepts sprinted toward the ravine's far exit, bodies blurring into streaks of motion. In seconds, they were spectral shapes. In ten seconds, gone entirely.

They didn't say farewell.

They didn't offer thanks.

They didn't even acknowledge the ravine full of bleeding soldiers who had died buying time for this operation.

A nobleman's want and needs were all that mattered.

The moment the Adepts vanished, the tension shattered.

Initiates erupted:

"Those bastards—!"

"They stole everything!"

"Cress died for this!"

"My squadmates died for this!"

"Captain , say something—!"

Atheon rose slowly, painfully. Every muscle screamed.

"What do you want me to say?" he rasped.

"That they robbed us?"

"That they took our reward?"

"That they're vultures wearing noble colors?"

He pointed at the Monarch's corpse.

"You want the truth? We wouldn't have survived that thing without them. We wouldn't even be here to complain."

Silence.

Then—

"They still used us."

"Yes," Atheon said. "They did."

A beat.

"But that's politics. That's the Republic. That's the hierarchy. And none of you were born strong enough to argue with it."

The initiate lowered their heads, furious, ashamed, but alive.

Atheon straightened.

"We're leaving."

"Where?" someone asked.

"Anywhere SOUTH," Atheon barked. "This entire outpost is done. And if the Monarch came this far inland, more are coming behind it. The crawlers aren't retreating any time soon—they're advancing."

A chill ran through the survivors.

A faint skittering echoed from the northern shadows.

Atheon clenched his jaw.

"Form up! We're clearing a path to Vester. Kill whatever crawlers remain and MOVE."

He grabbed a fallen spear, snapped the bent tip off, and used the shaft as a walking support.

"Anyone who slows us down, I'll throw over my shoulder. Anyone who panics, I'll knock out. We're not dying in this graveyard."

He turned toward the shattered ramp leading out of the ravine.

"Grim Hollow is dead," he murmured. "Time to bury it."

The survivors moved.

Some limped.

Some staggered.

Some carried comrades missing limbs.

But they moved.

As they ascended the ravine's winding path, disordered crawlers—leaderless, scattered, confused—darted out from cracks and tunnels.

Atheon led from the front.

He crushed skulls with the broken spear shaft.

Initiates struck with shaky determination, killing what had once terrorized them hours ago.

Every kill was raw, desperate, clumsy—but effective.

The air smelled of blood and winter stone.

Behind them, Grim Hollow burned.

Ahead, the trail stretched toward Outpost Vester—broken, dangerous, barely lit, but the only hope remaining.

Atheon didn't look back.

None of them did.

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