Interlude XVI – Ashen's Fire
Ashen warmed her hands by the blaze of a campfire, the flames painting her face in cruel gold. Across from her, mercenaries shifted uneasily.
"Word is the citadel's bleeding itself out," one said. "We don't even need to storm it. Just wait until they choke on each other."
Ashen smiled faintly. "And what's a fire if you don't feed it?"
She tossed a sealed parchment into the flames. It burned quick, curling into ash. Inside had been whispers, false orders, carefully planted seeds.
"I don't need to break Seraphine's walls," Ashen said. "I only need to make sure she doesn't trust the hands holding them up."
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Interlude XVII – Darius' Warning
Darius had seen war before, in guilds long dissolved, fortresses long burned. But even he hadn't seen it move this fast.
The Wanderers who trickled into his camp brought stories of the citadel: players dragged into hallways and never seen again, patrols vanishing, factions hoarding supplies.
He stood with arms folded, jaw tight, as his scouts finished their reports.
"If it keeps going this way," one said, "the citadel will eat itself long before Ashen raises a blade."
Darius exhaled slowly. "Then Seraphine has to know. Someone has to warn her before the rot takes the bones."
His gaze hardened. "Or before the System decides her Realm isn't worth saving."
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Interlude XVIII – System Log
[INFINITE REALMS – FRACTURE EVENT TRIGGERED]
Metrics: — Leadership Stability: COMPROMISED.
— Loyalty Cohesion: 32% and falling.
— Factionalism detected.
Adaptive Directive: Escalation pathway authorized.
New Flag Initiated: [CIVIL WAR]
----
The citadel didn't fall in one night.
It cracked. Slowly, visibly, like ice under pressure.
Seraphine stood on the battlements as the sun bled out across the horizon, her hand resting on cold stone. The fortress still stood—but it no longer felt like hers.
Inside, the corridors throbbed with whispers. Some looked at her with defiance. Others avoided her gaze entirely. Trust had been cut clean along the blade of her sword.
She had killed the traitor. But in doing so, she had proven the mob right: paranoia ruled, and mercy had no place.
Now?
Now they looked at her with fear.
The first break came three days later.
A faction of guards refused their night patrols, claiming it was suicide to keep defending the walls while "Seraphine coddled enemies within." They locked themselves in the west wing, hoarding weapons and rations.
Valeria led the response, but when she demanded obedience, half the guards obeyed and half turned their backs.
By morning, the fortress had drawn invisible lines.
Seraphine paced the great hall with Noctis leaning in the shadows. His voice was flat, edged.
"You've lost them."
Her head snapped toward him. "Not all."
"No," he said. "But enough. And the rest are watching to see if you bleed weakness again."
He stepped into the light, eyes hard. "The citadel isn't yours anymore. It's a wolf pack—and the pack only follows strength."
Valeria stormed in then, armor clanking. "Two more patrols deserted. Supplies gone with them."
Her voice cracked like steel on stone. "Seraphine, if we don't put this rebellion down now, there won't be a citadel left to defend."
Seraphine's throat felt dry. Every decision now was a knife-edge. Crush the rebels, and she'd only deepen the fractures. Let them fester, and rot would consume everything.
Her hand brushed the hilt of her sword.
"How many?" she asked quietly.
Valeria hesitated. "…dozens."
The weight of it pressed on Seraphine like a millstone.
That night, the rebels struck first.
Alarms ripped through the citadel—steel on steel, torches flashing in the dark. The west wing had erupted into fire and shouting.
Seraphine didn't hesitate this time.
"Arm yourselves!" she barked, cutting through the chaos. "We end this now."
The corridors became a battlefield. Shadows and steel, screams bouncing off stone. Seraphine cut through rebels and loyalists alike, the line between them blurring in the madness.
She saw faces she had dined with, laughed with—now twisted by fear, swinging blades at her.
Noctis fought like a phantom, his daggers flashing in arcs of silver, blood painting his grin. Valeria was a wall of iron, her blade carving order into the madness.
But even together, they couldn't contain it all.
The citadel was at war with itself.
Hours later, the fighting burned down to embers. The west wing was a ruin of corpses and flame. The survivors huddled, silent, eyes hollow.
Seraphine stood amid the wreckage, her armor cracked, blood drying on her face.
The silence was worse than the screams had been.
Because in the silence, she heard it clear—her Realm had split.
Not just walls. Not just numbers.
But hearts.
And she knew the System was watching. Waiting. Measuring if her Realm was still worth saving.
She closed her eyes and whispered a vow only she could hear.
"No matter the cost… I won't let this fortress die."
But as the echoes of battle faded into the night, even she wondered if the words were already too late.