The summons wasn't just some call to arms, it was a dare, dripping with arrogance. And the world? Oh, it answered, loud and clear.
Up above the northern ridge, the sky just split open, tearing apart with this gut-wrenching screech, like metal being crushed by something way bigger than us. Out of that gash spilled creatures' or forces, was half-shadow, half-fire, stitched together with scraps of forgotten languages and wild, reckless magic.
They didn't bother walking. Instead, they oozed downward in sharp, jerky bursts, twisting gravity as they went. There were almost ten of them or maybe even more. Their eyes sparkled like mirrored stars, and their mouths gaped open, each one a living spell.
Sylen was the first to move. Of course, he was.
"You take left, I'll take style."
And just like that, he vanished mid-step, only to pop back into existence in midair. Light spun from his hands, crashing down like a meteor. The blast smashed through two of the creatures, burning runes into their bodies and turning them to dust from the inside out.
Dusken was right behind him, slipping through the chaos like a living shadow. He was all silence and smoke, bending the light around him. One of the creatures shrieked, but it was too late. Dusken phased straight through it, the air rippling in his wake. When he reappeared, the thing just caved in on itself, like a dying star swallowing its own light.
And then there was Zaire.
He didn't rush in. He just stood there, watching and waiting for them. The air around him thickened, humming, like nature itself was holding its breath. When he finally spoke, his voice cut through everything, uttering a word that wasn't meant for human ears—a name that was off-limits.
The ground cracked, not from force, but from recognition. Every creature still standing whipped around to face him. And then, all at once, they dropped to their knees.
For one heartbeat, everything hung in the balance. Then—
They screamed.
Zaire lifted his hand. Starlight flared across his skin, constellations blooming in fierce, merciless arcs. His eyes blazed, molten white and unstoppable.
The creatures tried to run. One by one, they failed.
Dusken tore through them, pure judgment in motion. Sylen spun between shadows, light wrapping around his arms like war banners. It wasn't pretty or clean. This was war, which is raw and unforgettable.
And when the dust finally settled, when the last of those summoned nightmares had faded to ash and silence, the Three stood alone on a battlefield ripped open by their powers, unmoving.
Sylen wiped a streak of blood from his cheek and grinned. "I hope they were watching us."
Dusken didn't look away from the sky. "They were."
Zaire stayed quiet. He knelt by the scorched sigils, dragging a finger glowing with starlight through the ash. Then he stood, steady as ever.
"We're not hiding anymore," he said, voice low but unbreakable. "And if they want a reckoning—"
Sylen's grin turned wicked. "They just got the prologue."
Above them, the sky stitched itself closed. But the wound? It didn't heal. It just waited.
* * *