The ground didn't shake. It broke. A body hit first. Armor folded inward with a sound that didn’t belong in a fight. Then another.

The squad didn’t advance. They hesitated. “Spread—spread out!” one of them shouted, voice cracking. Too late.

Diego moved through them. Not fast. Not rushed. Unstoppable. A blade struck his side. It landed. It meant to land. He didn’t stop.

His hand closed around the attacker’s wrist. Tight. A moment. Then—the arm bent the wrong way. The scream didn’t last long. Diego released him without looking. Already turning. Already moving.

Another came in from behind. He didn’t turn fully. Didn’t need to. His elbow drove back. Once. The impact lifted the man off his feet. Sent him skidding across the broken stone. Too light. Too easy. The thought slipped in before he could stop it.

For a heartbeat—the battlefield shifted. Not here. Not now. Blood on stone. Not dust—stone. A man begging. Hands up. Diego’s grip tightening. Snap. The memory vanished.

He exhaled once. Slow. Measured. “Stay down,” he muttered—not to them. To himself.

They didn’t stay down. Three came at once. Better. Coordinated. One high. Two low. Diego stepped into them. Not back. Into. The first strike glanced off his shoulder. The second he caught. The third—he took. Steel bit into his side. Not deep. Not enough.

The man grinned through blood. “We know,” he rasped. Diego didn’t react. The man leaned in, breath hot, voice low and certain. “About the silver dragon in your caravan.”

For a moment—everything stopped. His hand closed around the attacker’s chest plate. Fingers digging into metal. Only a moment. Heat. Pressure. Don’t—

The memory hit harder this time. White hair. Not Swan. Snow white. Blood across her face. Not hers. Behind her—a child. Silver and white. Too still. Too quiet. Something inside him broke.

His grip tightened. The metal gave first. Then bone. The man didn’t scream. Didn’t have time. Diego drove his hand forward. Through armor. Through flesh. Through. The body dropped.

Silence followed. Not real silence—but the kind that lives inside the moment after something goes too far. The others saw it. And they broke. “Fall back—!” “Get away from him—!” Too late.

Diego stood there for half a breath. Chest rising. Falling. His hand—Red. The world rushed back in. “No.” It wasn’t loud. But it stopped him. His fingers curled. Pulled back.

The next attacker came in desperate. Wild. Diego moved again. Controlled. Deliberate. This time—he struck to disable. Not destroy. A shoulder shattered. A knee gave out. A body dropped—but lived. He forced it. Every movement tighter. Smaller. Contained.

Another impact rolled across the ridge. Closer. Familiar. A heavy weight landed beside him. Sebastian. The white tiger didn’t roar. Didn’t posture. He stood. Massive. Silent.

The enemy saw him—and whatever resolve they had left—fractured. Sebastian moved once. A single swipe. Not wild. Not savage. Precise. An attacker flew sideways, armor torn open, weapon spinning away. Alive. But done.

Diego exhaled again. Longer this time. “Good timing,” he muttered. Sebastian’s golden eyes flicked toward him. Not approval. Not concern. Awareness. He had seen. Of course he had.

Diego turned back to the remaining enemies. Fewer now. Shaken. He stepped forward. They stepped back. Not because they were told to. Because they understood. This wasn’t a man they were fighting. It was something choosing—very carefully—not to become something worse.

Diego’s jaw tightened. Not here. Not in front of them. The thought anchored him. Held him. Barely. “Run,” he said. Some did. Some didn’t move fast enough. The fight ended. But the weight didn’t lift.

Diego looked down at his hand again. Clean now. Wiped on the dust. But he could still feel it. The moment. The slip. And how easy it had been. Sebastian shifted beside him. Close. Steady. Diego didn’t look at him. “Not again,” he said quietly. Whether it was a promise—or a lie—he didn’t know.

Sebastian made a low sound in his throat. Not a growl. A rumble. It vibrated through the ground under Diego’s boots. Diego finally looked at him. The tiger’s gaze was steady, unblinking. It held no judgment. Only the weight of shared history. Of knowing what the other had done. What they both were.

Diego’s shoulders dropped a fraction. A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding escaped. From the lower town, the sounds of the larger battle continued—shouts, the crackle of elemental magic, the heavy beat of dragon wings. But here, on this broken ridge, there was only the two of them and the aftermath. “I know,” Diego said, his voice rough. “I’m here.”

Sebastian nudged his massive head against Diego’s side. A solid, grounding pressure. Diego’s hand came up, fingers sinking into the thick white fur at Sebastian’s neck. He leaned into the contact. Just for a moment. Just to remember what steady felt like.

Then he straightened. His silver eyes scanned the ridge, the retreating backs of the enemy, the bodies left behind. One in particular. The one he had made. “We need to move,” Diego said, the merchant’s crisp efficiency returning to his tone like a well-worn coat. “Swan will be looking.”

Sebastian fell into step beside him as Diego began walking, not back toward the main fight, but along the ridge’s edge. He needed a moment. A few breaths of distance from the blood, from the memory, from the part of him that had answered so readily.

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of ozone and burnt stone. Diego paused, looking out over the shattered valley below. Fallow’s Gate was a ruin. He had seen ruins before. Made them, even. But this was different. This was now. This was Swan’s charge, Arianda’s fear, a future he was supposed to be helping to build, not tear down. Sebastian sat on his haunches, a silent sentinel.

“It’s getting harder to tell the difference,” Diego said, more to the wind than to his companion. “Between then and now.” “Between what I end and what I save.” The tiger made no sound. He simply waited. He had heard this before. He would hear it again.

Diego’s hand went to his side, where the blade had struck. The white fabric of his tunic was torn, stained dark. The skin beneath showed shallow cuts where he was struck, as if they couldn’t break past the dense muscle. Another thing that set him apart. Another reminder. He let his hand fall. “Alright,” he breathed. “Enough.”

“Stay with me.” Sage didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

Arianda nodded once. She didn’t hesitate this time. They moved together. His fire surged forward not wide, not wasteful. Commanded. Hers followed. Air folded into flame. Compressed. Sharpened. Then detonated.

The burst tore through the front line, heat and pressure slamming into armored bodies, sending them staggering back, formation breaking just enough. Space.

“Again.”

She was already moving. Another surge—his fire, her air— This time faster. Cleaner. Explosive force rippled outward, catching two attackers mid-step, lifting them off their feet, throwing them back into the broken stone.

Arianda’s breath steadied. This she understood. Not wanton chaos. Not uncontrolled panic. Rhythm. Zudrok moved above them, vast wings cutting through the air, each motion pressing weight down onto the battlefield. Below, Sage stepped forward again, his presence carving space as much as his flame.

They held. No, they were pushing. For a moment it felt like control. Then the battlefield shifted. Not everywhere. Just enough. A break in the left side line. A stumble. Arianda’s eyes flicked just for an instant.

Leo. He was still barely standing. And above him a silhouette dropped. Incredibly fast. The dragon came down in a blur of scale and shadow, claws extended, maw open wide.

Arianda didn’t think. She moved. Her arm swung wide, purely instinct, almost muscle memory. Water. Ice. The technique snapped into place before she could question it. A wave of jagged frost burst outward, shards forming mid-motion, ice knives. They slammed into the descending dragon, biting into scale, throwing off its angle.

She let her breath escape, but it was not enough. The creature crashed into Leo. The impact drove him into the ground. Teeth sank in right into the wound she had sealed. A claw tore across his chest, far deeper.

Her scream ripped through the air. “LEO—!” Arianda was already running. In her frantic dash her hands whipped out like whips sending explosive shots of ice at each soldier attempting to close the distance. Each dart of ice supported by a strong gust increasing their force. Each one knocked back by a sheer tremendous instinctual force of the impact. She paid them no heed, she saw nothing more than her fallen friend.

Behind her Sage turned. “Arianda—!” He was too late.

She dropped to her knees beside him. Blood. Too much. Too fast. “No—no—no—” Her hands hovered over the wound. Searching. Feeling. Find it. She tried to see it like before. The flow. The source. But it wasn’t a thread. It was—everything.

“Stay with me—stay with me—” Her fire flickered. Unsteady. She pushed, tried to force a flow. Nothing. She couldn’t find it. Couldn’t hold it. “I—I can’t—”

Leo’s breath hitched. Shallow. Arianda’s hands trembled harder. “No, I just did this — I just—”

Behind her the fight didn’t stop. Sage moved. Not toward the enemy. Toward her. Blades met him mid-step. Three men seized him as he fought his way to her. He didn’t slow. His movements were precise. Efficient. Fire cut through one attacker, forced another back—but there were more now. Too many closing in at once.

Zudrok dropped lower. Massive. He seized one attacker in his jaws, flung them aside. Then turned. Three dragons descended on him at once. Smaller and faster. They hesitated just for a breath then committed. Zudrok met them head-on. Claws collided. Wings thundered. The ground trembled beneath the force of it.

Sage pressed forward still moving toward Arianda. He was mere steps away, pushing attackers back, grounding himself near her to protect her. The space around him tightened. Too many angles, the threats coming from all sides. He began to feel the pressure. “Arianda—!”

She didn’t hear him. “Please—please—” Her hands pressed closer to Leo’s wound. Trying to force the beat. Trying to find the point. Nothing. It slipped again. Panic surged. “I can’t!” she cried.

Leo’s hand twitched, grasping weakly at her sleeve. Then falling. Behind her, steel flashed. Sage saw it, he turned too late.

The blade came from the side, a desperate lunge from a soldier Sage had knocked down but not out. It cut across Sage’s back, a shallow line of fire through his coat. He didn’t cry out. His head snapped toward the attacker, his eyes cold. The man froze for a fatal second. Sage’s hand closed. When he opened them again a burst of flames shot out so hot they instantly turned the body to ash.

But the distraction cost him. Two more closed the distance, weapons high. Sage was forced back a step, putting himself squarely between them and Arianda’s kneeling form. He planted his feet. Fire wreathed his hands. It wasn’t an attack. It was a wall. A roaring, rippling barrier of heat.

Arianda felt the wash of it against her back. She didn’t turn. Leo’s face was pale, his lips parting soundlessly. Her own breath came in ragged gasps that matched his. “Look at me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Leo, look at me.”

His eyelids fluttered. He was trying. The deep gash across his chest welled red with every faint heartbeat. She could see the stark white of bone. This wasn’t a clean cut to cauterize. This was a ruin.

“I don’t know how,” she sobbed, the confession torn from her. Her fire sputtered in her palms, useless and wild. She tried to will the blood to move, to manipulate the water in him. Nothing. She remembered Swan’s calm voice, the guided focus. But Swan wasn’t here. There was only the thunder of combat, the smell of blood and ozone, and the terrifying stillness growing in the boy beneath her hands.

The light left Leo’s eyes. And there was nothing left to reach. She couldn’t even feel the waning currents of his body anymore.

It didn’t fade. It vanished. One moment he was there, trying to see her. The next, he was just… gone. The stillness that followed was absolute, a hollow silence beneath the battle’s roar.

Arianda’s hands stopped trembling. They went perfectly still, hovering over the ruin of his chest. Her breath caught. Held. Then shattered into a raw, silent gasp.

Behind her, Sage’s wall of fire buckled. A blade slipped through the rippling heat, slicing across his ribs. He grunted, the sound more frustration than pain, and the fire-wall flared brighter, pushing the attackers back a step. But his movements grew tighter. Slower. The wound bled freely, darkening his coat.

He didn’t go down. He planted his feet wider. Fire lashed from his hands in controlled, vicious arcs, keeping three soldiers at bay. But a fourth circled, looking for another opening. Sage was being worn down.

Arianda didn’t see it. She saw only Leo’s empty face. The world narrowed to that terrible quiet.

Then Simon was there. He didn’t run to her. He moved to Sage’s flank, his fire magic already responding. The ground at the circling soldier’s feet erupted in a burst of flame, catching him in the side, instantly melting metal onto skin. The scent of fused skin and metal filled the air. “Sage! Your left!” Simon’s voice was all command, no hesitation.

Sage pivoted, fire meeting a sword thrust from the left. He didn’t thank Simon. He gave a sharp, acknowledging nod. Together, they formed a tighter pocket of resistance, fire weaving a desperate defense.

“Arianda!” Simon shouted, his eyes darting to her kneeling form for a split second. “Get up!”

She didn’t move. Her fingers brushed Leo’s cold cheek.

The last two attackers pressed harder, sensing weakness. One lunged past Simon’s fiery wall, sword aimed for Sage’s wounded side. Sage caught the blade on his staff, but the impact drove him back another step. His breath was coming harder now.

Then a shadow fell over them all. Not a dragon’s. A man’s.

Diego landed between the attackers and Sage without a sound. He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t roar. He simply arrived. Sebastian was a blur of white beside him, a silent avalanche.

Diego’s hand closed around the wrist of the soldier striking at Sage. He twisted. The snap of bone was crisp, definitive. The man screamed, sword falling. Diego released him, already turning. His elbow connected with the second soldier’s helmet. The man dropped like a sack of stones.

Silence reclaimed the immediate ground. The larger battle still raged in pockets further down the slope, but here, it was over.

Diego’s silver eyes swept the scene: Sage, wounded but standing; Simon, braced and ready; Arianda, broken over a body. His jaw tightened. He said nothing.

Simon was already moving past him, toward Arianda. He didn’t touch her. He knelt in front of her, blocking her view of Leo. “Arianda.” His voice was low, urgent. “Look at me.”

Her gaze lifted slowly, blank with shock.

“Sage is hurt,” Simon said, each word deliberate. “You can help him. You *have* to help him.”

She blinked. Her eyes drifted past Simon to where Sage stood, one hand pressed to his bleeding side, his face pale but composed.

“He’s the one who taught us, protected us when we first arrived. We have to help him!” Simon pressed, his voice softening just a fraction. “He got us this far. You can do this. Focus.”

Arianda’s breath hitched. She looked down at her own bloody hands, then at the blood on Sage’s coat. The paralyzing grief shifted, just an inch, making room for a colder, sharper need: to not lose another one.

She pushed herself up. Her legs held. She walked to Sage, her steps uneven. She didn’t look at Leo again. It was too raw.

“Show me,” she said to Sage, her voice scraped raw but clear.

Sage met her eyes. He gave a faint, approving nod. Slowly, he removed his hand from the wound. The gash was deep, bleeding steadily. “It’s straightforward,” he said, his tone calm, instructional. “Find the source. Contain it. Seal it.”

Arianda raised her hands. Fire flickered in her palms, wild and grieving. She closed her eyes. Breathed. She thought of Simon’s words. *He taught us.* She thought of Swan’s guidance. Of the cauterization, the control. She pushed the image of Leo’s stillness away, locked it in a corner of her mind.

Her fire steadied. Became a focused, brilliant point of heat. She opened her eyes, looking at the wound, not as a horror, but as a problem to be solved. She saw the torn vessels, the flow of blood. She found the source.

Her hands moved. The fire followed, a precise, searing touch. The smell of burnt fabric and sealed flesh filled the air. Sage didn’t flinch. He watched her work, his expression unreadable.

The bleeding slowed. Stopped. The wound closed under the careful ministrations of her flame, leaving an angry, cauterized line across his ribs. She held the heat for a final moment, ensuring it held, then let her hands fall. The fire winked out.

She swayed on her feet, the sudden absence of purpose leaving her hollow. Sage caught her arm, his grip firm. “Good,” he said, the single word holding more weight than a speech. He held her until she found her balance again.

Around them, the sounds of battle were dying. The enemy was in full retreat. Diego stood a few paces away, wincing slightly at the cuts on his body. Sebastian sat, watching the valley. Simon hovered close, his eyes on Arianda, ready to catch her if she fell.

Arianda pulled her arm gently from Sage’s grasp. She turned. She forced her eyes to find Leo’s body once more. The grief was still there, a vast, cold ocean. But now, atop it, floated a single, burning coal of resolve. She had failed. But she had not been useless at the end.

She looked at Simon, then at Sage, finally at Diego’s impassive back. “What now?” she asked. Her voice was soft. Her shoulders curled inward, arms folding tight around herself.

Simon stepped forward and pulled her into his arms. For a moment, she resisted—then let herself lean into him. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat pressed against her ear. The question didn’t disappear. But it stopped spinning.