The mall had never felt warmer. Not from the flickering lanterns hanging above nor the gentle, ambient glow of the enchanted bulbs tucked into the corners, but from the quiet laughter and shared breaths of people who, for a moment, had nothing to fear. Gathered around a low table stacked high with plates of roasted meats, steaming breads, and freshly brewed teas, the group found themselves sinking into a rare peace. The scents of fire-grilled dishes filled the air, mingling with the faint smell of oil and metal from Garrick's armor, freshly cleaned yet still marked with the scars of battle.
Jay leaned back against the booth, arms stretched lazily across the backrest. "So," he drawled, fighting back a yawn, "when are we getting to the good part? I'm talking about the real stories. Battle stories, Garrick. Don't hold out on us."
Garrick chuckled, the sound low and gravelly. His rugged features softened, eyes crinkling at the corners as he wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. "What, you're already bored of the basics?"
Before Jay could press him further, Mellissa leaned forward, her eyes glinting with an academic sharpness that hadn't dulled since their first conversation. "Before you go rambling about beheading disasters," she said, adjusting the golden ribbon around her wrist, "I actually had a question. Fundamentals, if you will. As a fire mage… when manipulating external flames, do you control the core essence directly or the surrounding temperature to guide the flame's behavior?"
Garrick, despite not being a mage himself, blinked once in thought before giving a slow, knowing nod. "It's both. The core essence gives the flame its strength, but the external temperature molds its shape and speed. The real trick is knowing when to prioritize one over the other. Too much control over the core and you burn out fast. Too much focus on the surroundings, and the flame collapses under its own instability."
Mellissa hummed, clearly satisfied with the answer, scribbling mental notes as though her life depended on it. "Not bad for someone who can't even cast a spark."
The table erupted with light laughter. Jay was just about to fire back with another demand for gory tales when Corbin, who had been lingering nearby with his usual silent vigilance, suddenly leaned down beside Garrick, his lips barely moving as he whispered something into the captain's ear.
Whatever was said, it drained the humor from Garrick's face instantly. His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a tight line. His fingers flexed around the handle of his cup as though imagining it was the body of his spear.
Without so much as a word to the group, Garrick pushed back his chair, his movements sharp and purposeful.
"Where you off to?" Roy asked, his voice cutting through the quiet tension that had settled over the table.
Garrick's gaze lingered on them for a moment before he exhaled through his nose. "Got a call. Nearby. Some mess that needs cleaning, and I'm closest. Shouldn't take long."
Roy sat forward. "Then we'll come."
"Yeah!" Jay agreed, practically bouncing in his seat. "What's the point of sitting around if there's work to be done? Unawakened need help too."
Even Nicole, typically more reserved, nodded firmly. "If we can support in any way, we should."
Corbin scoffed immediately, his arms folding over his chest. "Out of the question. It's not safe. You'll be nothing but a hindrance out there. These aren't practice drills. People are dying."
The words hung heavy in the air. But none of them backed down. Not even Mellissa, who tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into the faintest smirk. "We know. All the more reason to help."
Garrick's eyes swept across the table, noting the steel behind their stares. Kids. Too young to understand the weight of what they were asking. But there was something else. Something older beneath those youthful exteriors. Something he couldn't quite place.
After a moment's pause, Garrick leaned toward Corbin, murmuring something too low for the others to hear. Corbin's jaw tightened. He looked as though he might protest, but after a frustrated exhale, he gave a stiff nod.
"Fine," Corbin growled. "But you follow every command exactly as it's given. One mistake and you're out."
The group rose from their seats with quiet determination, the air shifting from one of warmth and laughter to something colder. Heavier.
—
Back at the town, the night had become a battlefield of smothered screams and distant roars. The protective dome glowed faintly behind them, offering sanctuary only to those who could no longer fight. The elderly. The children. The wounded. But outside its pale light, the able-bodied had joined the fray.
Men and women who had never picked up weapons before now wielded them with shaking hands and desperate hearts. The air stank of ash and blood, a suffocating mixture that made every breath feel like inhaling smoke.
Captain Raynor's machetes were drenched in black blood, the runes along their lengths still burning with essence as he clashed with a Rank 2 Blaze Tail Lynx. The beast was relentless, its flaming tail whipping through the air with such force that the ground itself sizzled wherever it struck. Raynor sidestepped, his movements sharp and practiced, yet even he was beginning to slow.
He could feel it — the weight of exhaustion pressing into his limbs, the sluggish pull of overextended essence gnawing at his core. The Lynx roared again, and Raynor barely managed to deflect its fangs with a swift upward slash.
And then the air changed.
It wasn't gradual. One moment the battlefield was filled with the familiar sounds of combat — metal against claw, magic against flame — and the next, silence. A silence so profound it felt as though the very essence of the world had been sucked away.
The first to feel it were the mages. Their spells faltered mid-cast. The flow of essence from the earth slowed, as if nature itself recoiled.
Then came the roar.
It wasn't just a sound. It was an event. A phenomenon that cracked the air and made the ground tremble. It rolled over the battlefield like a storm surge, ripping through the hearts of every fighter and freezing them in place. Even the Rank 2 Lynxes paused, their heads turning toward the gate with something that almost resembled fear.
From the gate, a shadow emerged. Larger than anything Raynor had ever seen outside the old war chronicles. The Rank 3 Blaze Tail Lynx moved like a nightmare given flesh, its body stretching nearly twice the size of a transport truck, its fur a molten mass of living flame. Its eyes glowed with a malicious, intelligent hatred. And its tail — gods help them — its tail burned white-hot, the flames no longer bound to mere orange and red, but shifting into hues of blinding blue.
"Rank... three," Raynor whispered, his voice barely audible.
Despair spread like a plague. Those who had fought bravely until now faltered. Swords wavered. Shields dropped an inch lower. Spells fizzled out before completion.
This was no longer a fight. It was survival. Barely.
Raynor tightened his grip on his machetes, his jaw clenching as the Rank 3 let out another thunderous roar, its voice rolling across the battlefield like an omen.
Somewhere, deep inside, he knew the worst had only just begun.