The air was thick with dust and ash. The portal closed behind them with an unnatural hiss, leaving behind an echo—a reverberation of magical energy that dissipated into the wind. The platoon of Blendbreeds emerged silently from the dimensional rift, their dark cloaks crusted with grime and their breaths heavy with exhaustion.
The first Temporal Rift had been destroyed. Another step toward the annihilation of that anomaly. They still wondered why such an event was happening, but only the two captains of the group knew the answer to that question.
Nayra ran a hand through her raven-black hair tipped with pink, a nervous tic that betrayed her frustration. Her storm-colored eyes wandered over the desolate field. The mission had been a success—at least on the surface—but they had brought nothing back. No corpse, no tangible proof of their feat. Only the certainty that the rift was closed. She hadn't even killed a single monster—less than her co-captain.
"Waste of time," she murmured, clenching her fist on her belt.
To her right, Alabaster—the one acting in place of their general—advanced with the same measured pace. His black hair fell over his forehead; his face was impassive, only his amber eyes betraying a flicker of attention to his surroundings. His rapier was still intact, untouched in the scabbard at his side throughout the entire battle. He hadn't needed it.
"Don't make that face," he said with a half-smile. "We knew it would turn out like this."
The Blendbreed didn't answer right away. Her cloak brushed her legs with every step, the weight of the weapon on her back the only thing anchoring her to reality. Her Expleo had remained silent, unused, as if even the weapon had refused to dirty itself for such an insignificant battle.
"Look on the bright side—this means our subordinates are strong enough to manage without our help."
They approached the surviving soldiers of the regiment. The Black Swans.
Forty-eight.
That's how many of them remained.
Once, they had been over two hundred, an elite unit trained to confront any anomaly and resolve it in the shortest possible time—the black and silent blade of the Daffodils Academy.
Now? A broken pack, warriors doomed to a glorious decline.
Alabaster stopped and glanced at the soldiers. They were exhausted, but none dared speak. The Black Swans never complained.
"Get some rest," Nayra ordered, folding her arms. "We'll return to the academy soon. I expect you in my tent to assess the condition of the wounded."
Some nodded; others simply sat on the ground. No one spoke.
The Blendbreed turned toward her with a gentle smile. "You should relax too."
Nayra snorted. "How am I supposed to relax? My weapon is on the verge of breaking. It needs maintenance, and no son of Corgi knows how to do it."
"Want to try the dwarves? I could ask my family to intercede for you."
"We'll think about it after the mission's over. Right now, I need to find a way to bring back at least one corpse."
Alabaster shook his head. "Let it go. It's not your fault. It's the rules of the rift that don't allow it. The general will be more than pleased with what we've accumulated over the years."
"That's not the point," she replied through clenched teeth. "We have a duty to do it. We need to bring back concrete, usable results—not just mission reports. What do you think the general is going to do with that?"
Alabaster sighed. It was always like that.
Every mission, every battle: Nayra always wanted to offer a reward for their leader. It was her way of fighting, her attempt to keep at bay the emptiness growing inside her with the awareness that another day had passed. One more day where the founder of the Black Swans remained missing.
"We can't know how he'll react," he said at last. "Let's get ready to return to the Daffodils Academy now."
A Spectral Travel.
It was how the Black Swans moved. A unique, dangerous ability that allowed them to pass through the veils of the world like shadows between dimensions. But it was exhausting—every jump a risk he alone bore.
Alabaster rubbed his temples, focusing. "Do what you need to do. I need a moment to concentrate."
Nayra crossed her arms. They would return to the academy, make their report. And then?
The question weighed on her lips, but a flap of wings broke the silence and distracted them both. A messenger raven landed in front of them. The seal of the Scarlet Hawks—the fourth regiment of the academy—glimmered on the parchment cylinder.
The captain reached out, untied the message, and opened it.
His amber eyes scanned the words quickly. His expression changed. The silence grew heavier.
"So? What does it say?"
The Blendbreed took a deep breath. The soldiers had rushed over immediately, curious to hear the news. It was rare for any of the other regiments to contact them.
Alabaster read aloud: "Your general is alive. He is personally handling the rifts. The order to all regiments is to abandon the mission. May the ichor grant you strength. Samara Dearca, captain of the Scarlet Sparrowhawks."
The wind howled through the camp.
The Black Swans stood motionless. Only the distant crackling of flames in the food braziers broke the silence.
Nayra clenched her jaw. She couldn't believe it. "And you, Alabaster, you want to return to the Academy?" she asked, her voice sharp as a honed blade. "Really?"
The captain slowly lowered the message and looked at his subordinates, who were waiting anxiously for his answer.
"We are the Black Swans," he replied. "We are bound to follow only the orders of our general—the one who never turned his back on us."
She stared into his eyes, searching for a crack in that calm façade. "So?"
The Blendbreed lifted his gaze to the sky for a moment.
"So… there can only be one answer," he let the silence settle in their minds, heavy as the burden of their existence. Then he lowered his eyes to the soldiers, his voice steady.
"In march."
The Blendbreeds raised their arms in a gesture of respect.
No questions. No hesitation.
After two long years, they would see their leader again.