The lanternlight flickered softly against the sterile stone walls. Maya lay tucked beneath thick blankets, her face pale but peaceful, a sheen of sweat still clinging to her brow. Tubes of light mana fed into a small crystal beside her bed, pulsing in rhythm with her slow breathing.
A young guard, Tenn, no older than twenty, sat on a stool beside her, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded with fatigue. He rose to stretch his legs just as a nurse entered, clipboard in hand.
"She's stable," the nurse said gently, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. "Vitals are holding. We expect a full recovery."
Tenn gave a tired nod. "That's good. Real good."
The nurse hesitated. "Though… her time on the field might be over. The toxin did a number on her nervous system. Might never cast again."
A quiet settled.
Then—
A faint grip around his wrist.
Tenn looked down.
Maya's eyes were barely open. Lips trembling. Fingers weak, but desperate.
"Mor… more…"
He knelt beside her. "What?"
She rasped again. "D… den…"
"The den?" He tried to ease her down. "It's alright, it's cleared. Only some stragglers left—we're mopping them up."
She shook her head weakly. "No… you don't… under… stand…"
The words came with great effort—but then, clearly:
"The mother is still alive."
Tenn froze.
"…What?"
She grabbed tighter, gaze wild despite her frailty.
"Go… please… go now…"
He stumbled back, bolted from the room, yelling for his superior.
If there's a mother still breathing down there…
Shit. It takes at least ten E-Ranks to even slow a D-rank monster. Ten more to ensure a kill.
He broke into a full sprint.
This could be very bad.
EXT. UNDERGROUND CAVERN – DEN
BOOM— James crashed through a webbed tunnel, twisting mid-air as an insectoid creature—lithe and winged—ripped past him.
It screamed—a sound like shattered glass and boiling blood—as it banked hard for another pass.
James hit the wall, rebounded, and snarled.
His arm glimmered faintly—scales rippling across his forearm and jaw like liquid obsidian. His torn armor mended itself mid-air, the ash re-forming with a hiss of black steam.
He landed on the wall with a solid clang, jamming his spear into the rock and crouching low on the haft like a perched hawk.
"Fast," he muttered, golden eyes narrowing. "Caught me off guard."
A second insect zipped toward him, claws gleaming with toxin.
James ripped a blood spear from a wound on his side.
Balanced atop the embedded spear, he gave the new weapon a slow spin—twirling it behind his back, then across his shoulders with casual precision. Each rotation hissed through the stagnant air, flicking blood in tight arcs.
He tilted his head just slightly, golden eyes locked on the rushing blur ahead.
"Just remember…" he muttered, voice low and lethal.
"…you asked for this."
The creatures lunged.
James didn't flinch.
They slammed into the wall—
—and froze.
Their claws dug deep into the stone, trying to turn. Trying to flee.
But James stood perfectly still atop his spear.
They turned their heads.
Their vision split—two… four… eight… sixteen…
And then their bodies collapsed into ribbons of gore.
James dropped down head-first—flipping mid-fall and landing in a crouch. He dragged his hand across the blood-soaked earth, forging the thick, pulsing shaft of a monstrous new spear, sharp as spite and thrumming with his fury.
Dripping red. Dense as bone. Etched with ash.
The tunnel ahead shook.
A deep, guttural screech rattled the walls—more thunder than sound.
James stood, rotating his new weapon, letting it rest on his shoulder.
A shadow shifted at the far end.
The Mother.
A towering insect monstrosity, her chitin scarred and eyes glowing with sentient hate. Her legs clicked as she rose. Behind her, a web of tunnels pulsed with eggs and steaming bile.
James smirked.
"Your turn next, ugly."
INT. CAPITOL BARRACKS — WESTERN COMMAND TOWER
Captain Alric Thorne's brow furrowed as the knock at his chamber doors came again—this time sharper. He hadn't slept. Maps littered his desk. A half-finished communiqué lay buried under a line of crossed-out orders.
A breathless lieutenant—Tenn—burst in, saluting between gasps.
"Captain—urgent report from the eastern front. Movement near the den. The swarm's been wiped, but something else might be breaching from below. Reports are… unclear."
Thorne stood slowly, towering over the man. "Send a runner to High Marshal Renn. Tell him I want air support on standby—but we hold position. No forward movement without my word."
Tenn hesitated. "Sir… that's the thing. We can't leave."
Thorne narrowed his eyes.
"The Garran diplomatic envoy is less than a day out. Full military escort. They're arriving with intention, sir. Their frontlines are holding formation as if preparing for a siege—not a summit."
Thorne exhaled sharply, hands tightening behind his back. "Of course they are," he muttered. "They'd wait until we're down a flank."
Tenn took a breath. "There's still a combatant inside. I think it's the outsider—James Whitlock."
Thorne scoffed. "The idiot went back. Is he trying to tame it?"
Before another word could leave his lips, a faint rustling behind him drew his attention. A soft knock—not at the door this time.
His balcony curtain fluttered.
Thorne turned. The doors were closed.
Then—
FWSSH—
He unlatched and swung open the doors—a sudden gust slammed into him, wind and dust blinding his vision. For a breath, everything whited out.
And then—
There.
A figure stood just inside the curtain's edge, half-shadowed by the flickering candlelight. Back turned. Silent. Still.
Black armor layered in light cloth, no metal to clang. A curved blade across the back, sheathed diagonally. A thin silver charm dangled from the belt—too delicate, almost decorative. A tell. A subtle bead braid along one side of the hood.
Feminine grace disguised in masculine presence.
She didn't turn.
Thorne steadied his breath. "Whisper."
The figure inclined their head slightly.
"Get to the den. Now. Confirm what's happening. Scout. Relay. Do not engage unless forced. Tell any remaining personnel to hold position until backup arrives."
A voice like velvet wind whispered back:
"Understood."
And then—
Gone.
No gust this time. No sound. Just absence.
Only the swaying curtain left in her wake.
Tenn stared, mouth slightly open.
He hadn't seen Whisper in months. Not since the Eastern Burn.If she was needed again… things were worse than he thought.
He turned to Thorne, eyes wide. "Was that really... the Whisper? The Veiled Talon of Dusk Company?"
Thorne adjusted the gauntlet on his arm, gaze hard.
"Gather a handful of soldiers and go," he said coldly. "I wanted boots at that den ten minutes ago."
Tenn snapped his boots together, spine straight as a blade.
"Yes, sir!"
He bolted down the hall, urgency in every step.
Thorne turned back to the maps, one hand gripping the edge of the table.
Too many fires. Too few hands.
And now something was stirring in the deep.