The eagle landed on the dead ridge and let out a low cry.
Nine slid down from its back, his feet crunching against the brittle shale. The air was different here—heavy and still, as if even the wind didn't dare move.
Before him stood the mouth of the Vale—an ancient scar cut deep into the mountain, smooth walls towering like a temple. He stepped in.
A chill ran down his spine from the Aura emitting from the cave.
The deeper he walked, the darker it became—until stone eyes opened.
They weren't statues.
They were watching him.
Figures emerged one by one, peeling from the walls like shadows shedding dust. Giants. Skins of granite, their veins pulsed faintly with dull orange light, like magma too tired to rise.
One of them stepped forward. Taller than the rest. The stone in his chest bore a symbol—a cracked circle. Skin like the mountain—cracked and gray, veined with molten orange beneath. His eyes glowed like twin embers. His mouth, a chiseled groove that spoke without breath.
"You come again, Soulborn." he said.
Nine didn't flinch. But his throat tightened.
"I didn't the first time," he answered. "That was my mother."
The Earthling blinked. Slowly. Like he didn't need to.
"And she was turned away."
"I won't be," Nine said. He tried to hold his stare, but he couldn't deny the chill he's feeling, his heart races loud.
Another giant rose from the stone behind him. Then another, and another—ten, twenty—emerging from walls, outcroppings, even the floor itself. Silent. Watching. As if judgment had a face.
"We are not your army," the first Earthling said flatly, his voice echoes in the cave.
"No," Nine said, stepping forward, hands open. "You're more than that."
Silence stretched. The heat from their veins pulsed in the cold.
"Why are you here?" the older one asked.
Nine took a breath.
"The village burns. Our warriors fight with bone and rope. But we're not enough, There are ships—five—coming in from the sea. Huge and I believe this is not just a raid"
The Earthlings didn't respond. But something behind their stillness shifted.
"They came for you, what has it got to do with us ?"
"Five warships? They didn't cross the sea for bone-wielding tribes. They came for the mountain. For something more. For everything."
A younger Earthling stirred. "You assume."
"I do," Nine said. "If I wait for certainty, I'll be the last one left alive."
The first Earthling's voice was heavy. "Last time we broke our stillness, we shattered. We fought alongside flesh. We lost kin. For immortals who buried their dead and forgot our names."
"You fear for your kind?" Another Earthling asked.
Nine hesitated. Just for a second.
"No,"he whispered. "I fear for everything. My people won't survive. But neither will the roots beneath your stone."
'Such boldness!'
Still, silence.
"You expect loyalty because you bleed?" the first Earthling asked.
"No," Nine replied. "I expect resistance. Because you remember."
Another Earthling laughed. Not kindly.
"Your mother came with pride. You come with desperation."
"I'm not asking," Nine said, voice cracking. "Help us—or bury our bones with yours. Either way, they're coming."
There was a pause. Long. Endless.
Then, a hand rose. From stone to sky.
One of the Earthlings stepped forward. Then two. Three. Until seven of them stood apart.
The leader's eyes narrowed.
"Only these will go," he said. "No more."
Nine nodded, his knees nearly buckled. he blinked fast—once, twice. Don't let them see you break.
"That's enough," He said.
The leader stepped closer. Close enough to see the tightness in her jaw. The fear behind her fire.
"You still carry your mother's scent, Soulborn," he said. "But you walk heavier than she did."
Then he stepped back into stone and vanished.
The rest followed—except the seven.
Nine turned, breath shuddering.
---
The sea was quiet at first.
Then came the sound—low, deep, and strange. Not thunder. Not waves. It was a warning. A call. Like something waking from the ocean.
From the fog, five ships slowly emerged.
They were monstrous. Heavy. Black. No flags. No emblems. No names. Just steel carving through water, ghost-like and patient. Their sails hung torn in places, crudely stitched with silver thread that shimmered faintly under the moon. Some were crescent-shaped, others jagged—like teeth ready to bite.
The water churned at their arrival. Wood creaked. Chains clattered. Metal groaned as anchors dropped like thunder into the shallows.
Then came the hiss.
With sharp, mechanical exhale, wide ramps dropped from the bellies of each ship, slamming into the sand with deep, jarring thuds. A hiss of steam rose where steel met earth—like the shore itself recoiling.
And then, they came.
Figures poured out in tight, practiced silence. Dozens at first. Then more.
Not a word spoken.
Just boots. Synchronized steps. Precision.
They wore black gear—tight, padded, tactical. Their armor wasn't tribal. It wasn't homemade. It was sleek and silent, layered with plates and dark mesh. Some carried long, slender blades that flickered with unnatural light. Others moved with tools no one from the mountains would recognize—hovering tech, foldable launchers, and things built for clean, silent kills.
Behind them came the muscle—hauling gear in box crates, guiding levitating carts that hovered inches above the sand. They moved like clockwork, every gesture exact. No yelling. No confusion. They didn't need orders.
They already knew the plan.
The air changed—thick with cold, heavy with dread. Even the wind fell silent, holding its breath as the soft thump of boots and hiss of steam claimed the shore.
Somewhere beyond the treeline, unseen eyes watched—silent, tense.