The dreams came unbidden, as they always did but this wasn’t a dream. It was an infinitely deep void. No life existed here.

  He floated in the darkness—lucid—staring into the void. He’d been here before.

  No sight.

  No sound.

  Only emptiness.

  Maybe he was dead. Maybe not. Hard to say in a place where time held no meaning.

  His body had to be broken—shattered against rock, crushed beneath the black surge of the Cradlebrook River. Or perhaps it was still being dragged downstream, pounded by current and stone.

  "NO."

  The sound echoed, deep and resonant, as if the void itself rejected the thought.

  He looked around. Nothing but black.

  He could be drifting into the Sea of Sorrows, where nightmares hunted beneath endless tides. He could be torn apart even now—devoured in darkness. No purpose. No cause. No dream. No more fight.

  Maybe… maybe just rest.

  "NO."

  It came again, not a word exactly—more like a rupture. A refusal. A denial of stillness. Of death. Of peace.

  A spark of will in a place where nothing else existed.

  "NO."

  His mind clung to the sound. Whether it was memory or madness, he didn’t care.

  It was something.

  And it was his.

  Shift.

  He was in a small mountain town, sunlight draping the rooftops in soft gold.

  Snow still clung to the shaded corners of the streets—remnants of the climb they'd barely survived. The mountains had been cruel. The cold, worse. But they’d made it through.

  Barely.

  Kael walked slow, careful of the little hand curled in his own.

  The girl—a shy beast kin child in a pale, winter coat, tightly bundled—clung to him with quiet trust. Her fur-tufted ears flicked at every new sound, but she didn’t shy away. Not from him.

  At his side, a mountain of a man stomped in enchanted full plate. The sun caught his bald head and curled mustache as he grumbled, “You can’t just pick up a stray.”

  “Who said?” Kael replied without looking over.

  The big man let out a huff. “It’s not part of protocol. We’re tracking... things. She shouldn’t be anywhere near it.”

  “She’s not,” Kael said, his voice even. “She’ll stay at the inn while we work. She’s safer there than anywhere else.” He glanced sideways. “Besides, she likes you.”

  The warrior turned to object, but Kael was faster.

  “You want to tell her no?” he asked, gesturing gently to the girl beside him. “Tell her she can’t come with us. Tell her the big scary man won’t let her.”

  The armored hulk blanched, suddenly pale. “Gods, no.”

  Kael finally looked down. The girl peered up at him, her wide eyes shining beneath her messy fringe of hair.

  “You hungry? Thirsty?”

  She shook her head—but held his hand tighter.

  And for a moment, the world didn’t feel so broken.

  Shift.

  He stood in formation on dry, cracked earth. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, steel, and scorched soil. Around him, row after row of weathered soldiers stood at attention—silent, battered, but unbroken.

  Footsteps approached—measured, heavy, calm.

  The Steel Father himself.

  A beast of a man in ornate, battle-worn armor. His presence alone steadied the line, quieting stray thoughts, sharpening every spine. He moved with the authority of myth, his eyes sweeping the formation like a man cataloging not just soldiers, but stories. Wounds. Sacrifices.

  He stopped at the front, his voice clear, grounded. “You did the impossible. Thousands of beast kin. A fortress lost. And now, a keep reclaimed.”

  He paused.

  “Hollow Bastion is ours again. And soon, it will be operational. A fortress once more.”

  A ripple of something—pride, disbelief, relief—ran through the line.

  “Your next orders,” he said, stepping aside, “will come from my daughter.”

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  Out she came.

  Princess Velia Vel Orien.

  Ice-blue armor gleaming in the harsh sun. Each movement precise, trained, effortless. Someone near Kael whispered it—“The Winter Storm.”

  The formation inhaled as one.

  She wasn’t just royalty. She was a battlefield ghost story in the flesh—a Bound Warden. The commander of the Silver Stalkers. Stories of her charges had passed from trench to trench, always colored by awe and dread.

  And now she was here.

  In front of them.

  Radiant, resolute, real.

  Her eyes scanned the line—sharp and pale as twin moons. When they landed on Kael, he felt a chill crawl down his spine. The look was not cruel. It was colder than that. Calculated. Absolute.

  If she was here…

  They weren’t just going to war.

  They were heading somewhere bad.

  And Kael knew, deep in his bones—some of them wouldn’t be coming back.

  Shift.

  “Are you interested in the history of the Canticule?”

  Kael's scarred hands flinched back from the cold stone. The Veilstone of Selene loomed in front of him—ten feet tall, carved from pale lunarstone, its edges still raw from an age long past. The surface shimmered, reflecting moonlight no matter the hour. At night, it pulsed softly with silver and blue aether-light, as if it breathed in rhythm with the twin moons above.

  A voice came from behind—low, melodic, and edged with amusement.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it? What brings you here?”

  Kael didn’t turn right away. “A Sister I met once said it had power. That it could heal.”

  “Heal?” she echoed as she stepped closer.

  He felt it then—a subtle ripple, like wind through tall grass. Magic. She was reading him, not his thoughts but something deeper, the emotion behind his presence, the cracks in his armor.

  The Sisters of the Moonmarch were mystics, dreamwalkers, passive seers. But some were trained in subtler arts—enchantresses of thought and memory, emotion and suggestion. Their power grew with nightfall. Under twin moons, their influence could slip beneath your skin like a song you didn’t remember hearing.

  “Ah. I see.” Her tone shifted—gentler now, touched with sadness. She studied him, and when her eyes met his scars, the knowing settled in.

  “Border wars. Veteran. I should’ve known.”

  She reached out and, without asking, let her fingers traced the edge of a recently-healed burn near the right side of his neck.

  “So much pain.” Her voice was a whisper now. “You’ve lived through far more than most.”

  She stepped back, offering her hand.

  “Come. Have tea with me.”

  He followed her through the winding halls of the tower. Cool stone, quiet echoes, flickering lanterns. They arrived in a circular chamber tucked beneath a domed ceiling painted with stars. A small table was already set. Steam curled up from two untouched cups.

  Kael hesitated. “Magic?”

  She smiled, coy and unreadable. “Does it matter?”

  They sat. The tea was warm, fragrant. Calming.

  “So,” she said, settling across from him, “how much do you actually know about us? Enough to avoid us in a medical tent, I imagine?”

  Kael gave a single, wry nod.

  She laughed—soft, sweet, and unguarded.

  “Yes… we do have a reputation.”

  Her eyes met his again, and for a moment, her gaze was no longer mystical or probing—just human.

  “But not all of us deserve it.”

  “How much do you know of the prophecy?”

  Kael didn’t answer immediately. The tea was warm between his palms, grounding—but it didn’t stop the chill that ran down his spine at her tone.

  “The coming of the Moon March,” she said, voice soft but steady, echoing faintly through the chamber. “A time when the world’s mana will fade. As the moons rise… and Solanir dims.”

  He shook his head. Not in denial—just unfamiliar.

  She smiled faintly, and continued. Her voice wasn’t urgent. It was reverent.

  “We Sisters believe we are meant to guide what remains of the world through its unraveling. We only bear daughters. Sacred vessels, each generation believed to bring us closer to the prophesied one.”

  She leaned forward, eyes catching the light of the floating lanterns, casting silvery reflections that mirrored the Veilstone’s glow.

  “There is a tale. Old. Faded even in our oldest records.”

  She spoke as if reciting a hymn.

  “One daughter… born of a powerful man—perhaps even a warrior. Or an enemy. She will be the one to end what was and seed what must be.”

  Her voice lowered, almost a whisper.

  “By fire he will fall. By moonlight she will rise.”

  A silence passed between them, weighty with implications neither dared name.

  Then, more gently.

  “We believe it’s tied to the Fadefall.”

  Kael stirred slightly at the word. Even the border wars paused during that time.

  She went on, her voice taking on the cadence of a teacher or a priestess.

  “Each year, during the Fadefall, the ley-lines drain. Mana recedes like a dying tide. For days, spells flicker, and wards fail. The barriers around our cities weaken.”

  Her fingers traced a circle on the table.

  “And the monsters come. Creatures twisted by hunger for mana—drawn by its absence. It’s during this time that spellcasting becomes nearly impossible. Even light becomes harder to conjure.”

  Her tone shifted again—more solemn, more sacred.

  “We Sisters call it the First Drumbeat of the Moon March.”

  She looked toward the domed ceiling, as if she could see the twin moons even through the stone.

  “Our oracles fast and sing beneath their light, seeking visions. Seeking her.”

  Kael felt his scars itch. Not from pain—but from something deeper. Something old.

  “And if she’s real?” he asked quietly.

  The Sister only smiled.

  “Then the world will end… and begin again.”

  Shift.

  The desert market shimmered under the midday sun—an ocean of color and movement. Kael moved slowly through the crowd, taking in the sight of beast kin in bright robes and layered tunics, laughing and haggling in a dozen dialects.

  It was strange to him—this place. Not the danger, not the tension—he was used to those. But the openness. The way flesh was bared without shame on city streets. The way eyes wandered without judgment. Freedom wasn’t a whispered thing here. It breathed.

  He found the stall he was looking for. A jeweler, run by a scale-kin woman whose scales gleamed like burnished copper. Her work was immaculate—intricate metalwork braided with desert gems that shimmered like the horizon.

  Kael didn’t haggle. He asked for the price and paid it without pause. Some things you didn’t cheapen with negotiation.

  Back at the inn, the world narrowed to the familiar. A wide private suite warded with privacy glyphs and lined with portable anti-magic charms. Maps were spread across a central table, his family hunched over them, plotting the next strike deep into the desert.

  Steel was being checked. A woman tested the weight of an axe before swapping it for twin curved blades. Another sat cross-legged, running a whetstone across a saber with ritual precision.

  He moved quietly through it all, slipping into the next room—where she was waiting.

  “Kael? Where did you go?” she asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

  He didn’t answer. Just took her hand gently and led her farther inside, away from the noise, the weapons, the war. From under his coat, he produced a small, wrapped cloth bundle. When he opened it, a necklace caught the soft lantern light—delicate and beautiful, strung with desert stones in hues of green and soft blue. As he felt the surprise for later in his pocket.

  She gasped.

  “Oh, Kael…” Her fingers hovered above it, not quite touching.

  “It’s for your birthday,” he said simply.

  She hesitated, eyes damp but smiling. “How much did this cost? You didn’t have to—Gods, Kael, it’s beautiful.”

  He shook his head, then met her gaze, serious in that quiet way of his.

  “I’m just happy we’re on the same mission. We’ve been apart too long.”

  She didn’t answer. Just stepped into him and pulled him close, arms tightening around his waist, forehead against his chest. Holding him like he was something worth keeping.

  He closed his eyes, resting his chin lightly on her hair.

  For a moment, the war disappeared as the nightmare began.