OBSIDIAN RIFT

The air inside Malina's house was a thick shroud of scented oils that clung to the walls. Garvan sat hopeless, his back against the door, the wood creaking under his weight as he peeped through the crack. Sweat stung his eyes but he didn't blink.

Outside, the lead Ruaka prowled closer, just yards away now. Its head twitched, its multiple nostrils pulsing open as it filtered the night air for the scent it craved. The oils had bought them little time, masking the blood-smell of the women huddled behind Garvan, but time was a resource that depreciated with every breath.

In the distance, undetected, Selenna rounded a corner and stepped into the middle of a street strewn with wreckage. The lead Ruaka was just ahead, taking stalking towards Malina's house, its skittering pack lurking in the darkness. She knew they were there but hadn't noticed her yet.

Her right hand clutched a knife, her trembling fingers gripping its hilt. Her left arm was bare, wrist turned up as she stared at it, eyes bearing the weight of regret. Her father's face flashed in her memory, his voice a howl in the wind: "Protect them, Selenna. That's your duty." She'd failed him and the settlement. Corpses sprawled the streets—friends, all gone because she couldn't fight for a safer place for them.

But there were still lives behind that door. Garvan. Cian, the people she'd sworn to fight for. Her lips parted, her breath shaky as she gripped the knife tighter. She could reunite with her father, let the blade kiss her wrist, she could give them one last chance.

Her eyes darted toward the Ruaka, then back to her wrist.

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The base of the South Wall thrummed with urgency, the pre-dawn darkness clinging to Dunmore like a stubborn fog. Behind the South Gate, Ronan barked out orders as soldiers smeared a blood-soaked rag on the coat of Aric's horse. A slaughtered goat lay crumpled on the ground nearby, its throat slit open.

Few yards away, Aric wrapped a bandage around his palm, the cut from earlier now a faint sting beneath his skin. Caden stood beside him, his eyes fixed on the ground as he murmured a prayer under his breath.

"Ilona, light his path… keep his blood in his veins, not theirs."

He looked up, shutting his eyes, a small prayer to the goddess whose sacrifice held the dome overhead.

Aric didn't look up—religion was Caden's anchor, not his—but he let Caden carry on, a neutral smirk on his lips. If Ilona was watching, she'd see him outrun these demons without her help.

"Aric!" Ronan's voice cut through his thoughts. "Get over here...the blood's cooling, and it's almost dawn."

Aric adjusted his armor and strode toward the horse, boots crunching on the cobblestone. Ronan's sharp eyes met his, softening just a bit.

"Be safe out there, boy. You're Dunmore's breath right now so don't choke us." He placed a firm hand on Aric's shoulder, giving him a friendly squeeze.

"Kick their asses," Finn called from where he sat on some crates, grinning tiredly. Lyra gave only a curt nod, arms crossed, her silence more significant to Aric than Finn's bravado.

Garrick approached with heavy steps that echoed through the early morning stillness, an Eldra amulet dangling from his fist.

"Borrowed this from some mage who probably cursed me for asking." He pressed it into Aric's palm. "Put this on."

Aric put the chain over his neck, the pendant settling on his breastplate. He swung onto the horse with ease, the leather saddle creaking under his weight.

Garrick held the bridle, his voice firm. "Lure the ones on the wall first. Ride past the settlement...past, not through it. We don't know how many are crawling in there."

He handed the reins to Aric, his face straight, the alcohol wearing off. "Take 'em far into Yrengoth forest, but watch for Reapers...those bastards wouldn't be too friendly. If you pull this off, stay put. I'll come get you by sunrise. Breakfast'll still be warm."

Aric raised an eyebrow, strengthening his grip on the reins. "And if I don't?"

Garrick stepped back casually. "I'll get you back either way...breathing or in pieces."

"Pieces? Nah, I'm too unpredictable for that." Aric said, grinning from ear to ear.

Large metallic hinges groaned as the soldiers cranked the gate open, just enough for him to ride through.

Aric leaned forward in his saddle, patting the horse's neck. "Sorry, girl...you're the real bait here." Then he kicked hard, and the horse bolted, speeding through the opening, the gate jamming shut behind him with a resounding thud.

The Widowmakers on the wall reacted instantly, nostrils flaring, sinewy heads turning to the blood-streaked horse. Looming at seven feet tall on all fours, they lunged at the scent, claws scratching against stone as they hit the ground running.

Aric hooted, the wind whipping his face as he rode toward the settlement, yelling back at his pursuers over his shoulder.

"Come on, you oversized bugs... I'm your meal...earn it!" The thrill rushed through his veins.

Atop the battlements, Garrick and the others rushed up the stairs, boots pounding. Soldiers lined the wall, torches swaying as they cheered on, fists in the air.

Garrick leaned on the ledge, squinting into the distance, watching as Aric's figure shrank toward the settlement's edge.

"Ride around, not through," he muttered. "Can't believe I'm actually worried about the lad."

Aric reached the settlement's mouth, burning rooftops releasing embers into the night. He yanked the reins, veering sharply as he rode to skirt its perimeter. The relentless Widowmakers thundered after him, their chittering growing louder.

Meanwhile, in Malina's house, Garvan braced himself, the Ruaka approaching the threshold of the house, its slit-like nostrils quivering as it came closer.

Selenna stood in the street, knife trembling in her grip, as she battled with cost of what she was about to do. The blade hovered over her wrist, her last chance to save them.

Then suddenly, wild, erratic chittering erupted around her. The Ruakas lurking in the shadows flinched, their heads darting toward the edge of the settlement. Selenna flinched as they rushed past her, nothing but a blur of claws and bloodlust.

The lead Ruaka, jerked back, nostrils flaring as it caught a new scent. It turned and charged after its pack, the ground vibrating under its weight.

Selenna's knife slipped from her fingers, her breath hitching as she fell to her knees.

Aric kicked the horse harder, the dome's faint glimmer up ahead, Widowmakers keeping a dangerously close distance.

From the battlements, the soldiers roared louder as dawn crept in. Garrick folded his arms, impressed. "That's one soldier with balls bigger than his head."

A new voice came from behind him.

"What's going on?" Edrik asked, brows furrowed in confusion as he looked at the cheering soldiers, then the blur of Aric and the pursuing horde retreating into the distance.

Garrick turned, his smirk fading, and the question left hanging in the air.

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Morrigan's residence stood like a fortress in the middle of the heavenly metropolis, a structure of black iron and stone. The eternal daylight of the heavenly realm glinted off pointed turrets that pierced the skyline.

Beyond its iron gates, the citadel stood, deities conversing in hushed tones as they walked through its gardens and majestic halls. The wide terrace, encircled with a balustrade made of bronze, overlooked a training yard below, racks of blades and shields glimmering in the sun.

Taranis strode onto the terrace, his steps almost muted as his sleeveless tunic rustled with every step. He paused near a statue—a lofty likeness of Morrigan, crowned with raven feathers, spear suspended mid-motion—and cleared his throat.

"Morrigan," he began, voice rumbling like a distant storm. "I came to apologize. That outburst in the courtyard, dragging Macha into it, questioning your stance...was unworthy of me."

He continued, shifting his footing. "The stakes are a blade at our throats. Duvran swore he'd retrieve the Aetherion—Eolan even traded the secret to Dain's death for that promise—and yet, here we are, the Aetherion still at large, demons taking over the mortal realm, and Eolan does nothing."

Morrigan stood near the balustrade with his back turned to Taranis, his eyes fixed on the gardens, hands resting slightly on the railing.

"An apology," he said after a prolonged pause, unimpressed. "Rare words from you, Taranis. But they're not why you're here."

Taranis exhaled, looking around, searching for unwanted listeners. "You're sharp as ever."

He stepped closer, boots brushing the polished floor, his voice toned down. "Duvran's stalling...or worse, scheming. Eolan sits on his throne, blind to the Titans stirring below. We can't wait for promises to rot. Someone's got to act...someone's got to lead."

His eyes searched for a crack in Morrigan's posture. "You see it too, don't you?"

Morrigan turned around slowly, his expression composed. "I see you reaching for Eolan's crown," he said. "Don't dress it in honor, Taranis. I won't join you."

Taranis's brows knitted into a frown, lightning pulsing shortly in his palms before he clenched his fists, quenching it. "You'd let him doom us? You, of all gods?"

He gestured toward the statue, its stone spear catching the light of the infinite sunlight. "That's the Morrigan I knew...warlord of the heavens, breaker of realms. Look at him, carved in triumph. Now you stand here, tamed, like a gelded stag."

Morrigan strolled toward the statue, his shadow blending with its own.

"Triumph," he murmured, running his scarred hand along the shaft of the stone spear. "You see glory. I see the war that tore us apart...half our kin moving to the infernal realm, Baivha among them, because of conflict that could easily be avoided. These are no trophies, Taranis. They're reminders of what we lost."

Taranis's laughed in derision. "Lost? You're still shackled to your family. Baivha and her daughter chose to follow Dain down there, left you here to mourn, and you let that chain you while the realms fray."

He took a calculated step towards Morrigan, his voice lowering. "Eolan's inaction will lead to our doom. I can't face him alone...not without you. Tell me you've not forgotten who you were."

Morrigan looked him right in the eyes, his resolve unyielding. "I remember," he said. "And I choose not to repeat it."

Taranis shook his head in disbelief. "So that's it, then." He stared at Morrigan, accepting his defeat. "I won't push this further...not now. But one day, you'll see I'm right. Eolan's stillness will crack, and you'll wish you'd stood with me."

He lingered for a while, then turned and started walking away. "Think on it," he said without looking back.

Morrigan stood still, watching Taranis disappear into an archway. He shook his head, walking across the terrace to the railing. The gardens stretched out below him, leaves rustling in a breeze that never reached him. He inhaled deeply, his mind drifting to his beloved Baivha and his daughter Macha, although their relationship remained strained.

Then, in the distance, he saw a winged figure plummeting from the ether, streaking the unblemished sky with its tattered wings as it spiralled to the ground like a fallen star.

Morrigan eyes narrowed as he recognized the figure. Ankou.

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"Unbelievable," Lugh hissed, his voice rising in frustration as he sat on the edge of a blackened cliff somewhere in the infernal realm, far from Duvran's citadel.

"Me, of all gods, stuck here prying open a tomb? I'm not Balmeir, Duvran knows that! What does he expect, that I'll wave my hands and the stone just parts like some grand stage curtain?" He got up from the ridge with an exerted grunt, magma streams below casting an amber glow in his face.

He let out a sigh as he turned around, the sulfurous breeze whipping his scruffy hair as he stared at the imposing stone slab before him—his brother, Balmeir's tomb, the god of magic, sealed with weathered runes.

"I should've known," he continued, pacing the scorched cliff, his boots crunching against the ash-strewn ground. "Hundred years locked up, and the moment he remembers me, it's for this. A fool's errand! I'm a trickster, not a grave-robber...how does Duvran think I'll fetch a staff when I can't even budge this cursed thing?"

A jarring roar interrupted through his monologue as a beast descended from the ashen sky, wings beating hard, creating a gust that made him shield his eyes. Macha's winged beast landed with a thud that shook the cliff. She slid off its back, her spear glinting like a serpent's fang before the strike. The beast huffed, perching obediently as Macha strode towards Lugh with a stare cold enough to freeze the very soul.

"How far?" she asked with a flat tone, twirling her dagger lazily.

Lugh groaned, running a hand through his hair. "How far? Nowhere, Macha! Look at it...welded to the very earth. Duvran wants me to crack this open...like I've got a clue how! I should've smelled the catch when he unchained me. 'Work to do,' he said. I'd prefer catching smoke with my bare hands."

Macha's gaze bore into him, unmoved. "It wasn't Duvran's idea. It was Faleir's."

Lugh paused mid-rant, stalling his dramatic whining. "Faleir? That wise snake? Why isn't he here seeing this highly achievable plan of his through?"

She shrugged, sheathing the dagger. "Don't know. Don't care."

He paced forward, his mismatched eyes narrowing, his voice lowering. "And you trust him? Faleir? He was Dain's right hand, even closer to Dain than Duvran ever was, loyal as you are to Duvran, Macha. If I were Duvran, I'd watch a man like that."

Macha's expression remained still, her voice like a blade's edge . "Usefulness matters, not trust. Faleir proved his worth...cut down Dain's runts when they escaped. Duvran keeps what serves him, even if it's fleeting. Like me. Like you." She gestured to the tomb. "Focus on being useful, Lugh. That's all he asks."

Lugh snorted, kicking a small stone off the cliff—it hissed as it dropped into the lava below. "Useful? I can't even budge this thing! What does Duvran think I'll do...dance it open? Sing it a song?" He paused, regret washing over him. "And if I fail? What then? Crawl back to him empty-handed and beg mercy? Or run—and pray he doesn't hunt me down? Neither ends with me breathing."

Macha's beast gave a low huff, ears flicking lazily, eyes closed but she didn't pay it any attention. "Don't fret," she said. "Open that tomb, prove your worth, and Duvran's got no reason to skin you. Don't forget that you've got a piece of your brother in you...his spark, just like Duvran now carries Dain's darkness element. Use it."

Lugh stared at her, then at the tomb, his confidence faltering. "A hundred years in solitude, and this is my welcome...cracking graves for a useless staff. Titans, demons, the whole mess...didn't know this was waiting." He let out a sigh as he straightened, rolling his shoulders like a fighter stepping into the ring. "Fine. One last shot."

He approached the slab, his palms hovering over the runes. "Okay Lugh, this isn't about muscle anymore", he mumbled to himself. He closed his eyes, digging deep, reaching for that spark of his brother's magic buried in his spirit. His breathing slowed, and then he felt a pulse surge through him, his eyes flicked open, glowing brightly. The runes glowed in response, red light flaring from the stone.

The cliff quaked, the ground rumbling as cracks spreading across the tomb's slab. The slab splintered and slid aside with a groan, revealing a pitch-black hollow entrance hazed with dust. Lugh staggered to his knees, chest heaving, energy slightly drained.

Macha stepped forward, her spear rustling in its holster on her back as she stared into the abysmal entrance. "Well done," she said. "Let's move."

Meanwhile, far off from the infernal realm where Lugh cracked open his brother's tomb, Aric rode through Yrengoth forest, his grip on the reins slick with sweat. Dawn crept over the horizon, rays of gold slicing through the overhead canopy, but the light only provided grim clarity to the nightmare on his trail.

The Widowmakers thundered behind him, their chitinous frames shaking the ground, senses locked on his horse's weakening pace. The horse's breaths reduced to ragged snorts, its strength wearing out with every step.

Aric leaned in the saddle, looking back. The herd was gaining on him, claws kicking up dirt, relentless chittering vibrating in his bones. The horse wouldn't last—they'd swarm it, then him. He gritted his teeth and pulled out his dagger, the blade still carrying traces of his blood.

"Sorry again, girl," he muttered, rubbing the horse's neck. Slowly, he carved a deep gash along the horse's side, fresh blood pouring out. The Widowmakers rattled wildly as they locked onto the scent.

Aric didn't waste any more time, kicking off the stirrups and leaping off the horse, hitting the ground so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him. He rolled through the undergrowth and quickly scrambled up, diving behind a gnarled tree, resting his back against its rough uneven bark, lungs burning.

The Widowmakers skittered past as they chased the wounded horse deeper into the forest. The sound slowly faded, replaced by the distant chirping of birds and his own heavy breathing.

Aric stood to his feet, brushing off dirt from his bandaged hand. He adjusted his armor and sheath, eyes scanning the surrounding vegetation before taking purposeful steps deeper into the forest, leaves crunching under his boots.