Geveno's blade arced high, burning brighter than the sun, poised to end it.
But it never landed.
Because something howled.
Not a beast. Not a man. Something in between. Something bound.
The sky split—not with light, but with gravity. A sudden, wrenching pull that seemed to bend the world inward, toward a center that hadn't existed a moment ago.
Then—impact.
Jacob and Connor landed like a meteor.
The ground cratered beneath their shared body, armored limbs locking in perfect rhythm. Two heads turned in unison, one body balanced at the core—a single form made whole by two minds. The Oathfire Regalia shimmered across fused torsos, the armor shaped not for one, but for both. The lion motifs snarled as if recognizing the rare duality they encased.
Connor raised his spears—three of them now, orbiting like predatory stars. Jacob's fingers flexed, and the ribbon around his torso flared, spinning with a pulse that rippled through the battlefield.
Time stuttered.
Lyle's eyes widened. Soul Script lit up across his vision, but the outcome had changed. The future wasn't clear anymore—Jacob and Connor had blurred the path.
Geveno's blade met Jacob's.
Metal rang—but it wasn't metal. It was soul-bonded alloy, the will of a guardian unwilling to fade. Sparks lit the air as Jacob parried, then turned with a pivot of perfect balance—Connor swept in low, one spear carving a clean line across Gevena's path, forcing her back.
Two minds. One motion.
They fought as if forged together—not brothers, not twins, but a single force split across two bodies.
Ramsey blinked, stunned. "They're in coil mode?"
Markus narrowed his eyes. "Not just coil. They've synchronized."
The battlefield responded. Every blow from Geveno or Gevena met resistance—a counter, a prediction, a seamless evasion that bent around logic. The Oathfire Regalia shimmered with every clash, absorbing heat, redirecting power, burning brighter with every attack denied.
Jacob shouted, "Lyle, recalibrate!"
Lyle didn't hesitate. He recompiled. Adjusted for the new variables. Aria crawled to her knees, casting a field of renewal as the tide turned.
Gevena lunged again—but Connor hurled a spear mid-spin. It broke apart into six pieces mid-air, each shard magnetically seeking heat. She dodged left—straight into Jacob's waiting strike.
Boom.
She hit the ground hard, smoke rising from her back.
Geveno roared, flames consuming his form, twin daggers extending into swords—but even fire struggles against unity. The twins moved as one—Jacob blocking high, Connor sweeping low, then reversing with practiced brutality.
Then came the coup de grâce.
Jacob triggered the ribbon—it spiraled outward, wrapped around Geveno's arms mid-strike. In that moment, Connor leapt, a spear materializing mid-air.
He didn't throw it.
He drove it down.
Right through the flames.
Straight into Geveno's chest.
There was silence.
Then the ribbon flared and pulled.
The spear exploded, not with heat—but with memory. A blinding surge of Strifelion will. Geveno was thrown back, crashing into the earth, stunned for the first time.
Jacob and Connor stood over him.
Breathing as one.
Alive.
Together.
And behind them—Lyle rose again. No longer hunted.
Now protected.
The tide had turned.
Genevo rose slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. First, his eyes found Gevena—his sister, his mirror—and then shifted to the twins. He followed the path they'd charged from, the torn ground still steaming in their wake.
A strange feeling settled in his chest. Not fear. Not anger. Something more complicated—recognition, maybe. He knew, with quiet certainty, that no one would be coming to save him and his sister.
Turning back to the others, he saw them rising—one by one. Weapons in hand. Resolve hardening. Every gaze fixed on him.
They were ready.
And they weren't backing down.
Varzan's gaze locked on the spot where the image had just erupted—burned into his mind like an omen.
They came like a storm given form—two minds, one body, sprinting across the shattered field with terrifying purpose. It wasn't just speed—it was conviction, kinetic and raw. Their shared form didn't stumble, didn't hesitate. The armor didn't clank or drag; it flowed with them, molded to every fused joint and mirrored step like it had been born with them.
To the observer, it was unnatural and awe-striking.
Not because of their power.
But because of their oneness.
Two heads atop a single frame, turning in sync. Four eyes locked forward. One arm drawing a spear, the other steadying it mid-run. A swirling ribbon flared behind them, reacting to both heartbeats at once.
It was like watching a myth charge out of legend—some forgotten god of war, resurrected in bronze and flame.
Not beautiful.
Not monstrous.
Just… inevitable.
A voice slipped from the crowd—smooth, casual, but laced with venom.
"Hey, Varzan…"
The voice cut through the murmuring crowd—smooth, lazy, but coiled with something darker.
It was him.
Veyzrick Umbrahal.
Tall. Dark-haired. Lean as a shadow stretched too thin. He stepped into the firelight just enough for the glow to catch the glint in his eye. That ever-present smirk curled on his lips. "Shouldn't we be heading over? You know… lend your brother a hand?"
Varzan didn't look at him.
He didn't need to.
"No," he said flatly. "You all know what's out there—one of the ferals. You'd be infected before you got close."
A lie. But necessary.
In a camp held together by fear and half-truths, lies were often stronger than facts.
How else do you keep people calm when they're not sure their bunkmate isn't an enemy in disguise?
That was the point behind Gevena's version of the quest—gather followers, build hope, promise completion. A future. A finish line.
But the truth was messier.
Completion didn't mean numbers. It meant elimination.
Someone had to die. Someone like Lyle—the rival Archon bearer.
Only Geveno knew that. And only Varzan had been trusted to keep the others away. Delay them. Distract them. Hide the truth until it was too late to matter.
Because if the truth leaked… the camp would shatter.
Lyle wouldn't just survive—he might gain allies. Followers. People looking for a better story.
He couldn't be allowed to become an option.
And Veyzrick…
Veyzrick didn't need the truth to be dangerous. He already knew what "feral" really meant. Everyone in camp did. But he knew more. Always had.
It was in the way he spoke—casual questions that cut deep, jokes that felt like threats. In the way his eyes never stopped measuring people, like he was constantly calculating what they were worth… or what it would take to break them.
Veyzrick wasn't a soldier.
He was a spark looking for dry kindling.
He had been from the moment he joined them. People went missing. Morale cracked. Rumors spread like plague. And Veyzrick was never in sight when things unraveled—but he was always nearby when they did.
Varzan, young as he looked, had seen it all.
He knew the danger Veyzrick posed wasn't in open conflict—it was in moments like this. Just a question. Just a smile. Just enough doubt to turn neighbors into enemies.
He wasn't a troublemaker.
He was something worse.
A knife tucked in a handshake. A match in the wind.
Waiting for the perfect moment to ignite the ruin