Golden flashes tore through the night sky like molten comets, searing streaks of light that painted the forest below in momentary brilliance. Lysera’s eyes narrowed as she banked sharply to the left, then swung right, boosters roaring behind her with a keening wail of raw energy. Auren-charged rounds screamed past, their arcs crackling like miniature lightning storms as they tore through the humid night air, fired by unseen marksmen hidden deep within the shadowed forest.

  Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding.

  I can’t believe I fell for it… Damn it, Kaelen. Get it together, Lys. Think, she told herself, every nerve screaming with adrenaline.

  She tried to ascend, but the bullets tracked her silhouette, glowing under the pale moonlight like fireflies locked onto prey. There were too many shooters, and they were smart—silent phantoms behind the treeline, refusing to reveal themselves.

  “Have to go low… pick them off,” she muttered, grit lining her voice.

  Lysera dropped sharply, boosters whining in protest, diving toward the treetops. The air roared past her ears, whipping leaves and snapping twigs into her path. Bark splintered where rounds buried themselves in the trunks around her. Each flash of gold was a heartbeat of danger; each whistling round a knife slicing the night.

  A flicker of movement caught her eye—the glint of metal between two oaks.

  “Got you,” she hissed, voice barely more than a breath.

  Triastra hissed and spun, gears grinding as it reshaped into Snipe Mode. Lysera weaved through the woodland shadows, dodging two more incoming rounds, waiting for the shooter to pause in reloading. The instant came—and with a sharp crack of energy, the first sniper’s skull exploded backward in a spray of crimson, his body slumping limp into the underbrush.

  No pause. No hesitation. Lysera rocketed lower, brushing the treetops, spinning Triastra into Rapid-Fire Mode. Streams of energy bolts erupted from the chamber, each one a streak of white-hot destruction. She strafed through the shadows, calling out over the roar of her weapon.

  “Eat this.”

  Trunks splintered, limbs fell, and hidden cultists scrambled blindly. Lysera’s fingers danced over the trigger, pulling with precision, each shot felling another enemy as if she were choreographing a deadly ballet. Dust and smoke swirled around her, the air thick with the acrid taste of burnt wood and coppery blood.

  Her chest heaved. Breath came in sharp gasps.

  “How many more…?” she whispered to herself, voice tight with strain.

  She angled upward, intending to kick her boosters and gain the high ground again—

  Pain tore across her right side as a golden round slammed into Valkryss’s side thruster. Sparks spat into the night, the armor bucking violently.

  “Damn it… stay calm… stay—”

  The left thruster struggled to compensate, lurching and twisting as the suit spun out of balance. Lysera’s teeth ground together as she fought the controls.

  “Come on… hold… hold—!”

  The booster coughed, whining, before finally failing.

  The forest rushed up at her with terrifying speed. She slammed into the ground, dirt and leaves erupting in a storm around her. Pain seared through her ribs like white-hot knives; smoke hissed from the fractured booster, Valkryss sparking like a wounded beast. The impact left her world tilting, her vision swimming with streaks of fire and shadow.

  Slowly, with ragged breaths, she forced herself onto one knee. Triastra was still clutched in her hands, its barrel warm and humming faintly with residual energy.

  Her eyes, wide with shock and burning fury, scanned the treeline. Every shadow could hide death; every flicker of movement a threat.

  Get up… you’re not done yet… Her heart thundered in her chest.

  Lysera’s lips pressed into a thin line, jaw rigid. Fingers clenched on her weapon. She pushed herself upright, body screaming, mind a storm of determination. The night had not claimed her—not yet.

  Thick coils of shadow-black tendrils wound around Luka and Verona, cold and clammy, pinning their wrists, ankles, and torsos against the crumbling quarry wall. The bindings writhed like living smoke, sliding across their skin with a viscous, unsettling motion, tightening with every struggling movement.

  Luka’s teeth clenched, knuckles white as he tested the bonds. Each flex of muscle only made the tendrils constrict further. He let out a low growl, voice rough with frustration.

  “You… you realize he’s stalling us on purpose, right?”

  Verona bared her fangs, muscles coiling like springs under her taut skin, and slammed against the shadows.

  “How am I supposed to know why?” she hissed, eyes blazing with fierce intensity. “Focus! Just tear out of these!”

  Across the jagged rocks, Renore moved with calm, almost languid grace. He lingered between the shattered stone pillars, helmeted head cocked as if savoring their struggle. Shadows curled around his feet like living smoke, licking the ground with a slow, deliberate menace.

  A low, rasping chuckle escaped him, hollow and mocking, sending a shiver through the stone-strewn clearing.

  “Be grateful,” he said, voice uneven, punctuated by ragged panting. “I don’t have enough left to kill you.”

  The audacity of his words lit a wildfire of rage in both Dawnbreakers.

  “…You bastard,” Luka spat, jaw tight. He drew a deep breath, closing his eyes. Light coalesced along his spine, sparkling like liquid fire.

  “No choice,” he muttered, voice steely. “I’ll risk flash-step.”

  In a blinding flare of brilliance, Luka vanished from the tendrils just as they lashed toward him, reappearing several meters away in a pulse of white-hot light. Verona roared, transforming raw anger into action, and tore her bindings apart with bone-shattering force. Shadow ichor sprayed from her claws, splattering against the rock walls with a wet hiss.

  Renore swayed slightly, shoulders heaving. His armored form, once a pillar of impenetrable menace, now bore the subtle marks of exhaustion. For the first time that night, he looked human—or at least, mortal.

  “He’s wearing down,” Luka muttered, voice cold as steel. “Verona—together!”

  They launched in unison. Luka’s sword ignited with searing white heat, arcing toward Renore’s neck. Verona lunged, claws aimed for his exposed ribs, the fury in her eyes raw and feral.

  But just before they could strike—Renore dissolved into a writhing cloud of black smoke, swirling upward in a living shadow. His laughter lingered, thin and taunting, echoing across the ravine like a ghostly chorus.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “Until we meet again… fools,” the disembodied voice hissed, slipping through the air like smoke through fingers.

  Luka’s blade met empty air. Verona slammed her claws into nothing, growling, teeth bared in frustration.

  “Coward!” she spat, shoulders trembling with suppressed rage.

  Luka’s chest heaved, eyes scanning the darkness, lips pressed tight.

  “We need to get back to base. If he’s telling the truth—”

  A distant boom rolled through the night, a hollow resonance that shook loose stones and sent birds scattering from the treetops. A pillar of white smoke shot skyward in the direction of the forest, twisting like a dying flare against the pale moon.

  Both froze, hearts hammering.

  “That… wasn’t the base,” Luka said, horror dawning, voice barely above a whisper.

  Verona’s eyes widened, reflection of the plume mirrored in the wet sheen of her pupils.

  “That’s… Valkryss smoke—”

  Luka’s stomach dropped. “This whole thing… it was an ambush. All of it—meant to trap Lysera!”

  Without another word, he bolted toward the treeline, muscles coiling and releasing with fluid precision. Verona shifted fully into her beast form, pounding beside him, claws digging into the uneven earth, claws and paws striking in rhythmic urgency.

  “I can’t flash-step,” Luka muttered, teeth gritted. “Too many trees… I’d smash into all of them moving at light-speed. I need a clear, straight line.”

  Verona’s growl was low and urgent, vibrating with raw emotion. “Then run faster. If she’s bleeding out—”

  “I know,” he replied, grim and determined.

  Branches whipped past their faces, scratching, tearing at clothes and fur, the forest alive with the sound of their desperate flight. Their lungs burned, hearts pounding like war drums. Up ahead, the column of smoke twisted violently against the moon, a stark signal of catastrophe.

  Verona’s teeth clenched, her voice a harsh whisper of promise. “Hang on, Lys… hang on…”

  Branches snapped under her weight as she tumbled through the dense undergrowth. Lysera slammed shoulder-first into the forest floor with a jarring crunch that sent white-hot electricity skittering along her spine. Dirt and splinters filled her mouth; a fiery pulse of pain radiated across her ribs.

  Gritting her teeth, she forced herself onto her knees.

  “…Ughh… wasn’t so bad,” she muttered through clenched teeth, wincing at the lie. One rib was definitely cracked, stabbing with each shallow breath, yet she staggered upright anyway. Valkryss hissed smoke from its damaged booster, sparks flickering in the dim light like tiny fireflies.

  Footsteps—dozens of them—rustled through the distant forest, crunching over fallen leaves and snapping twigs. Lysera’s head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing with deadly intent.

  “Not yet,” she whispered, voice tight with determination.

  With the last functioning booster, she propelled herself upward, grasping a low-hanging branch and pulling her battered body silently into the treetop. Nestled among the leaves, Triastra clicked and hissed into Snipe Mode. She froze, heart hammering—a predator in perfect ambush.

  Below, shadows slithered through the undergrowth.

  “Spread out! She has to be here somewhere!” one cultist barked, voice nervous yet sharp.

  “Check every tree!” another added, eyes scanning the foliage. “We want her head, not rumors.”

  Branches groaned under their movement. Lysera bit down a groan as dizziness swirled around her. Pain clawed at her ribs; sweat slicked her brow. Stay focused. Hold. Wait for backup…

  A lone cultist stepped into her scope, perfectly still.

  The shot was merciless. The bolt of energy tore through his skull, and his body crumpled silently into the ferns, sliding softly against the undergrowth.

  Exhaling shakily, Lysera disengaged the scope, shifting along a branch to another vantage point. Her rib screamed with each movement. Just stall… Luka and Verona will find me. Hold… persevere…

  Another figure wandered into her sights. The trigger squeezed—another life ended, body collapsing into the shadows. Eight left.

  She repeated the process twice more, each shot slower than the last as pain flared hotter, sharper, digging deeper into her side. Her fingers trembled on the trigger. Just one more—

  A violent impact tore through her back.

  CRACK.

  A massive shadow barreled from above, wings slicing the air. A lion-shaped creature, hide black as spilled ink, eyes glinting like polished obsidian, slammed into her. Lysera’s scream was choked off as she crashed to the forest floor, leaves and dirt exploding around her.

  “Ugh—!” she gasped, struggling to draw breath. Pain radiated through her chest, iron tang filling her mouth. Still, she forced herself onto shaking legs. Boots crunched over scattered stone and broken twigs.

  Two forms emerged from the darkness. One, a man in sleek black armor, cocky smirk etched across his face. The other, a woman, eyes serpentine and nails curved like sharpened talons. Both radiated something deeply wrong, a predatory aura that twisted the shadows around them.

  “Wow… she’s still standing,” the woman, Silla, purred, voice silk and venom.

  “Persistent,” the man, Raen Varos, replied with cold amusement, eyes glinting. “I like that… in a corpse.”

  Beside Raen, the winged lion hovered silently, talons scraping against rocks and leaves with metallic rasping.

  Lysera swallowed the pain, raised Triastra with trembling hands, and whispered through gritted teeth, “Brandeds… great. Just hold a little longer, Lys… Luka, Verona… come on…”

  The chamber clicked as she switched into Rapid-Fire Mode. A desperate spray of white-hot bolts streaked through the night, slamming toward the pair. The shots struck with blinding arcs—only to pass through them like smoke, dissolving into illusions.

  Silla’s laughter cut the night like a blade, cold and mirthless. “Pathetic.”

  Raen Varos chuckled, voice flat with condescension. “Cute last stand.”

  The world tipped, dark waves lapping at her vision. Triastra slipped from her fingers. Her knees gave way, body collapsing to the forest floor in a heap, unmoving.

  Raen’s voice, casual and lethal, drifted over her. “Hey. You—yes, you. Take her head off. A lovely gift for Dawnbreaker HQ.”

  A cultist stepped forward, sword raised above her prone form, lips twisting into a nervous grin.

  “As you command—”

  A streak of white light tore through the darkness.

  A wet, sickening thump followed.

  The cultist’s head hit the ground, eyes still wide with shock, mouth frozen in mid-command. Silence fell for a heartbeat—then the forest seemed to inhale, holding the tension like a drawn breath before the storm.

  The cultist’s body collapsed to the forest floor just after his head had hit, the two impacts thudding in a grotesque rhythm, like a fish flopping helplessly out of water. Luka stood behind him, sword dripping in arcs of crimson that glinted coldly in the pale moonlight. Not a muscle twitched in his face; his eyes, dark and unblinking, were fixed forward.

  At his feet, Lysera lay slumped, barely conscious. Her breaths were shallow, ragged, each inhale sounding like friction against broken ribs. Dirt and blood smeared her cracked armor, and the edges of her visor were scorched and bent.

  Verona dropped to her knees beside her, fur rippling as she half-shifted back into her more human form, panic coiling around every motion. Trembling fingers sought Lysera’s throat, pressing lightly, desperately, until relief flashed across her face at the faint, fragile pulse beneath her touch.

  “She’s alive…” Luka’s voice was low, raw, trembling with barely contained fury.

  He lifted his gaze sharply, eyes blazing, scanning the remaining cultists and the Branded at the edge of the clearing. His sword rose again, trembling with murderous intent, a promise of retribution carved in steel.

  Verona’s hands shot out, gripping his wrist, the touch firm and unyielding.

  “Not now,” her voice cracked, sharp with urgency. “We need to get her to the medic. Now.”

  Luka’s jaw flexed, rage radiating off him like heat, but slowly he allowed reason to anchor him. He exhaled, harsh and shuddering, lowering the blade just enough to acknowledge restraint.

  The winged lion shifted uneasily at Raen Varos’s side, claws scraping against the leaf-strewn ground, while Silla’s eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin, sharp line. Verona turned fully, eyes glowing gold, fangs bared in a silent snarl, body coiled like a predator ready to spring.

  “Run now… or I’ll eat every last one of you,” she said, low and dangerous, each word a growl that echoed through the shadows.

  That was all it took.

  Silla clicked her tongue, a dry, exasperated sound, and stepped back. “Tch. Whatever—mission accomplished.”

  Raen Varos grinned, a cruel curl of amusement. “Let’s go before that mutt gets hungry.”

  The Branded and the surviving cultists didn’t hesitate. They melted back into the forest, eager to escape with their lives, leaving the clearing to silence and smoke, the faint smell of burned wood and scorched leaves hanging in the air.

  Verona didn’t pursue. She gathered Lysera into her arms, careful despite her panic, blood smearing across her sleeves. Her voice trembled as she spoke, almost a whisper carried on the cold night wind.

  “Lys… Lys, it’s me. Verona. Open your eyes. Please… wake up…”

  No response. Only the shallow rise and fall of Lysera’s chest, fragile as a candle flame in a storm.

  Luka crouched beside them, wiping sticky crimson from his blade before sheathing it with a metallic slide, the sound sharp in the still night. His voice, rough as gravel, cut through the tension.

  “We need to move if we want any chance of saving her.”

  Verona bit down hard on her lip to hold back a sob, nodding. She carefully hoisted Lysera onto her back, strength precise and deliberate, balancing the injured weight against her own muscles. Luka tore a strip from his shirt, knots tied with quick, practiced efficiency, wrapping it around Lysera’s ribs to apply makeshift pressure. First aid born of instinct, forged in battle.

  “Please…” Verona murmured, voice trembling, almost breaking. “…Don’t die on us.”

  Together, the two Dawnbreakers sprinted into the darkness, branches snapping and leaves rustling underfoot. Lysera’s limp form was cradled between them, smoke curling faintly from the distant ambush site, the night around them settling into an uneasy quiet, the forest holding its breath in the aftermath of chaos.