The stone gates groaned shut behind them, sealing the Tower's first bastion away like a memory. Before them stretched the Quiet Lands—miles of gentle hills, silvery grass that swayed without wind, and a sky the color of faded ink. Despite the name, the silence wasn't total. There was the soft hum of life, distant birdcalls warped by unseen forces, and the faint, ever-present rustle of the grass as if whispering secrets.
Kael adjusted the strap on his shoulder and fell into pace beside Allen, who was already studying the landscape with sharp eyes.
"Well," Rorek muttered from behind them, his axe resting lazily across his back, "doesn't look so quiet to me. Feels like a graveyard holding its breath."
"Poetic," Elowen said dryly, brushing her fingers along the edge of a low flower she passed. "And overly dramatic."
"I think it's beautiful," Caelindra added, her voice soft but cheerful. "Unsettling, yes—but in a kind way. Like it's waiting for us to understand it."
"Or waiting to eat us," Soren offered with a grin, twirling one of his knives before catching it. "Either way, I'm ready."
V's booming laughter erupted ahead of them. "Now that's the spirit! Danger? Mystery? Prime stage for a dramatic entrance—again."
"Don't," Luck said calmly, not even turning his head. "We just fixed your last one."
"Still worth it," V grinned. "Did you see how far I flew?"
G, walking beside him with a serene expression, merely sighed. "Let's focus, Vusi."
"G," V corrected with a mock pout. "We're in the wilderness. Use the cool names, come on."
Syrin, further along the path, adjusted the straps of his leather harness and glanced back. "This grass… it moves even when we're still. Anyone else notice that?"
"Not wind," Niva said, narrowing her eyes at the stalks. "Could be sigil residue… or something buried beneath."
Bran gave a quiet hum in agreement, his eyes scanning the distance. "We stay alert. No assumptions."
"I like Bran," Allen murmured under his breath. "He gets it."
Kael chuckled. "How long until someone inevitably says 'split up'?"
"Oh no," Caelindra said with mock horror. "Don't tempt fate."
V raised his hand. "I would like to point out that if we do split up, I call the most dangerous-looking area."
"You would," Elowen said, rolling her eyes.
"Again, don't," Luck muttered.
Everyone began to fall into a more natural rhythm, the air light with casual banter even as the landscape subtly shifted around them. The path into the Quiet Lands was wide at first, but already it narrowed with each step, the terrain becoming stranger, wilder—yet no one turned back.
The mission had begun.
The wind shifted as they walked, the atmosphere dense and deceptively quiet—like the air held its breath for what was to come. They moved as a unit but fell into their smaller clusters, conversation murmuring between them.
Up front, Kael, Allen, and Elowen took steady strides, a gentle tension underlying their exchange.
"How's the Sigil holding up?" Elowen asked, glancing at Kael.
Kael exhaled through his nose. "It's… alive. Like it's listening. Sometimes I feel it whispering under my ribs, pulling at me."
Allen's gaze flickered to Kael's chest, where the roots of Radix Captiva rested over his heart. "Stage one is a cage," he said quietly. "Stage two starts breaking it."
Elowen raised a brow. "You two are getting poetic."
"Sigils do that to people," Allen muttered. "Especially when they're weird."
Kael smiled faintly, looking ahead. "Still better than being numb."
---
A little behind, Risan walked beside Soren, flanked casually by Caelindra and Rorek. His hands were tucked into his long sleeves, eyes half-lidded as he scanned the terrain.
"Odd place," he remarked. "It's too quiet. You'd expect birds, bugs, at least one monster gnawing on some poor soul's thigh."
Soren smirked. "Maybe they're hiding from the loud guy with the hammer."
Risan chuckled. "V? I like him. He's loud in the way that makes others reveal themselves."
Rorek grunted. "Or makes things worse."
Caelindra, watching the horizon, murmured, "He's not careless. Just… vibrant."
Risan gave her a sideways look. "You're more poetic than Allen."
"Don't let him hear that," she smiled.
---
Further to the side, V, G, and Luck were wrapped in their usual imbalance of silence and storm.
V had both arms stretched wide like he was breathing in the entire Tower. "Can you feel it? This place is begging for something grand. An entrance. A challenge. A crowd!"
Luck, deadpan, said, "We have grass."
"Grass can be dramatic!" V grinned. "Ever seen a field burn in slow motion?"
"V," G said softly, "if you set fire to the Quiet Lands, I will let Bran lock you in a containment cube."
V gasped theatrically. "You wound me."
"You'll live," Luck replied dryly.
They kept walking. V glanced back and caught sight of Niva, Bran, and Syrin, quietly discussing something near the rear. Curiosity twitched in his expression, but G nudged him forward gently.
---
Now unified in movement but divided by personalities, the group pushed deeper into the Quiet Lands. Risan fell silent again, gaze sharpening, while Kael occasionally glanced toward Allen, as if seeking something unsaid. Even V, boisterous as ever, lowered his voice just a touch—not from fear, but reverence.
They didn't know what the Quiet Lands held.
But it was there
And it was watching.
The ground shifted beneath their feet—not physically, but in presence.
One moment, it was just a stretch of pale-green plains and soft whispering winds. The next… something changed. No sound. No birds. No insects. Even the wind itself seemed to pause, as if unwilling to stir.
Soren was the first to slow down. His gaze lifted, scanning the horizon. "...Do you feel that?"
Luck stopped walking too, head tilted just slightly. The soft golden rings in his hazel eyes caught a flicker of something. Not movement—more like absence. "Yeah."
G's hand hovered near one of his chakrams, his violet gaze distant. "The silence just got… heavier."
A few paces ahead, Allen suddenly turned his head. He didn't say anything, but his pupils had narrowed. His instincts flared—not in panic, but in that calculating way he reserved for when something didn't fit. His voice was a murmur, almost to himself. "This isn't natural."
Risan, ever the performer, went still in an unusual way. There was no exaggerated breath or dramatic monologue. Just a sharp, subtle narrowing of his eyes. "It's not watching us," he said quietly. "It's waiting."
The rest of the group didn't pick up on it right away, too caught up in banter or thought. But one by one, the change in mood reached them—like stepping into a cold patch of air in a familiar room.
Kael frowned, glancing around. "What's wrong?"
Soren didn't look at him. "We've crossed the line."
"What line?" Caelindra asked, blinking.
Luck finally spoke, calmly but firm: "Whatever separates the Tower's normal from the Tower's true."
The others now fell into a hush. Even V looked around, one brow raised—not in fear, but in focus. "...So, the drama begins?"
"Don't provoke it," G said flatly.
"No promises," V replied, though his hand had found the strap of his greathammer.
There was no obvious enemy. No visual sign of change.
And yet the quiet was too full.
Like a silence that had swallowed too many screams.
The eerie silence cracked open as pale, contorted creatures emerged from the misty silver grass and trees, surrounding the expedition on all sides. Long limbs, backward joints, and eyeless faces—they moved like shadows trying to mimic life.
Yet not a single climber faltered.
Kael's whip-sword was already uncoiling, the segmented blade glinting like silver flame in his grip.
Allen, his eyes sharp, unfurled his chain dagger with a single spin, the metal glinting like a promise of pain.
Elowen twirled her hooked swords with dancer's grace, stance flowing like wind through reeds.
Rorek hefted his bastard sword, his breath slow and grounded—unmoving as the stone beneath him.
Caelindra's chakrams floated into her hands, and with a pulse of energy, they hummed with barely restrained magic.
Soren, methodical, loaded his repeating crossbow with practiced efficiency, gears softly clicking in sync with his heartbeat.
In the group led by Luck, the rhythm was smoother—almost too calm.
V cracked his knuckles and let out a belly-deep laugh, hammer gleaming like a lightning bolt.
"Finally! Was getting bored!"
Luck, unshaken, raised his twin pistols and slowly took aim, his aura folding the world into silence.
G, serene and ready, summoned his twin chakrams with a calm breath, golden eyes watching the flanks.
Syrin's frost magic spiraled around her fingers, spellframe alight with sigils as her voice whispered incantations.
Niva, low to the ground, rolled a smoke orb across her fingers, daggers sheathed but hands twitching with excitement.
Bran, armored like a walking fortress, readied his massive tower shield and axe, planting his stance like a mountain.
Then came the third group—Risan's team.
Risan moved ahead with elegant confidence, twin short blades loose in his hands, his eyes scanning like a hawk mid-flight.
Behind him:
Zephyr Vale – An archer with long ash-blond hair tied in a wind-swept braid, calmly nocking a glowing spectral arrow.
Nadine Holt – A staff-wielder with rust-red tattoos crawling up her arms, fire pooling beneath her boots with a quiet hiss.
Dante Morello – A grim brawler with reinforced gauntlets and heavy footwork, rolling his neck like a predator ready to pounce.
Min-Seo Ji – A short, masked illusionist with mirrored lenses and ribbons of floating light swirling behind her like jellyfish tendrils.
Thorne Darric – A quiet enigma in monk-like robes, carrying a single obsidian blade and radiating a still, coiled power.
As the three groups formed a living triangle against the encircling threat, V cupped his hands to shout:
"Oi, you bony creeps! Come at me! I'm warmed up and still bored!"
The creatures paused—attention drawn. Half of them turned toward the shouting wall of muscle.
WHUMP.
Luck and G kicked V backward into place, each without even looking.
"Rein it in," Luck said flatly.
"We talked about this," G added with a sigh.
V chuckled as he raised his hammer again. "I am reined in."
The first creature shrieked. Dozens followed.
The battle began.
Group 12
The first creature burst from the grass at Rorek's flank—four spindly limbs folding into impossible angles, jaws snapping.
Kael felt the roots of his Sigil stir, a tight pulse under his chest. He lashed his whip‑sword out in a silver arc, the segmented blade wrapping around the creature's arm and yanking it off balance. With a sharp twist of his wrist, he sent it crashing into its neighbor. Stage one, he reminded himself, containment.
At Kael's side, Allen spun forward, chain dagger whipping around his forearm like a living shadow. He ducked under a slashing limb, slamming dagger into the creature's spine. It howled—a hollow, rattling sound—and folded. Allen rolled, dagger coiled back at his hip, already eyeing the next attacker slipping between Rorek and Elowen.
Elowen was a blur of steel. She vaulted over a fallen foe and caught another on its awkward hip‑joint with her hook swords. The blades bit deep; she pivoted, sweeping the second sword low and cleaving through its twisted femur. She landed lightly on her feet, eyes flicking toward Kael with a tense nod.
Rorek planted himself like bedrock at the center of the group. A beast charged him full‑tilt; he met it head‑on, bastard sword swinging in a brutal overhead arc that split the thing in two. He pivoted, blade humming, and caught another mid‑leap—its carapace cracking under the force.
From the rear, Soren crouched, crossbow clicking in a steady rhythm. He fired three bolts in quick succession—each one piercing the eye‑socket of a creeping ambusher. The third bolt spun the creature around and sent it head‑first into the grass, motionless. He reloaded on the fly, gaze sharp. "Two o'clock, Kael!"
Caelindra answered with a swirl of chakrams. One flew like a silver disc and punched through a creature's shoulder; the other ricocheted off a tree trunk and sliced the vines binding its clawed hands. She darted in, drawing blades, and finished it with a precise throat‑cut.
Kael heard a shriek at his six‑o'clock. He flicked his whip‑sword downward, catching the limb of a creature trying to scale Rorek's back. Sparks of Sigil energy danced along the whip as he yanked it free and lashed again, sending the attacker sprawling.
Across the line, the six of them moved as one: Rorek's shield‑arm held the frontline steady; Elowen danced through gaps; Allen struck with surgical precision; Soren's bolts created corridors of safety; Caelindra's chakrams carved space for Kael's searing lash.
When the final beast in their quadrant crumpled, Kael exhaled, heart hammering. The dust of Sigil energy faded from the air. He looked around at his friends—swords gleaming, daggers dripping, chakrams settled.
"Clear," he panted.
Elowen sheathed her hooks. "For now."
Allen gave a quick thumbs‑up. "Keep moving."
Rorek grunted, hefting his sword. "Next wave."
Soren cocked his crossbow. "I'm ready."
Caelindra's crescent Sigil pulsed once. "Onward."
They slipped forward into the thinning ring of creatures, already hunting the next flank, their formation unbroken. The Quiet Lands had shown its teeth—and Kael's group met the challenge head‑on.
Group 2 POV
A ripple ran through the silver grass as pale, jointed creatures lunged from cover, flanking them in jagged lines.
V—let out a cavernous laugh, hefting his greathammer. "Well, well, well! Look who remembered the party!" He sprinted forward, hammer crashing into the nearest creature's carapace with a thunderous KRACK, spraying dark ichor. "Miss me, you ugly little—?"
The others didn't answer.
Luck stood composed, twin pistols leveled. His first shot rang out, dropping a creature aiming for Syrin's side. The second blast caught another in the throat; it collapsed mid‑screech. Luck's breathing remained steady. "Keep it professional," he murmured, eyes already scanning the next targets.
Beside him, G moved like water. His chakrams spun free, two silver discs slicing through the limbs of approaching beasts. With a fluid step, he intercepted one sliding around their rear, throwing it back into the fray. No words passed his lips—only precise action.
Syrin chanted in a low purr, silver threads unfurling from her fingertips to bind three creatures in place. Frost blossomed along the strands, locking joints and leaving them helpless. "Binding frost," she whispered.
"Nice," Luck acknowledged, then fired again—each bullet finding gaps in carapace or bone.
V roared in delight. "See that? We're like a symphony of destruction!" He spun on his heel, hammer arcing in a wide cleave that split a creature in two. "Soloists always shine brightest!"
G glanced back. "Lower the volume."
V feigned shock. "Lower the volume? But G, darling, I thought you liked dramatic flair?"
G only offered a patient tilt of his head before stalking forward to shield Syrin from a leaping attacker. His chakrams flashed in protective arcs.
At their flank, Niva dropped to one knee, lobbing a smoke orb that erupted in purple‐hued gas. Creatures stumbled blindly into Syrin's threads as the mist curled around them. "Smoke's up—use it!" she called.
Bran braced his tower shield, the creature's claws skidding off its reinforced surface. He slammed his axe haft down, denting a skull and splintering bone. "Boom, bitches," he growled.
V whooped, clapping his giant hands. "Encore! Encore!" He lunged into the drifting smoke, hammer raised, hollering over the din.
Luck tapped V's shoulder, silent but insistent. V grinned, slipping back into formation.
Niva mashed another gadget against the ground—tiny compressed charges that blossomed in a ring of sparks, sending creatures flying outward.
Syrin unleashed a second wave of silvery threads, unraveling the momentum of the survivors.
G stood between Luck and the smoke, chakrams spinning like a shield, turning aside any beast straying too close.
The final creature fell with a thud. The air stank of burnt carapace and spent gunpowder.
V wiped ichor from his brow and flexed his massive arms. "That's how you make an entrance, right?"
Luck holstered his pistols, expression unreadable. "Just keep it contained."
G sheathed his chakrams. "We move."
Syrin's frost melted back into mist. "Onward."
Niva tucked her vials away. "Next?"
Bran hefted his axe. "Always."
And with that, Luck's group stepped forward, silent determination beneath V's lingering booms, ready for whatever lay beyond the next ridge.
Group 7 POV
A ripple in the grass alerts them first—sleek, pale shapes slipping into position around Risan's team. No warning cry, no rustle of wings—just limbs folding from shadows as the creatures encircle them.
Risan's twin blades flash free. He pivots on his heel, slashing through the neck of the nearest attacker. The curved steel whistles, severing tendon and bone in one clean arc. He tucks the first corpse at his feet and whirls to face the next flank. "Stay sharp!" he orders, voice low but clear.
To his left, Zephyr Vale draws her longbow in a single fluid motion. She nocks a spectral arrow, its tip glowing pale blue. Her release is silent—two bolts fly, striking two creatures in the chest. The arrows burst with shimmering light, reducing them to ash in mid‑air. Zephyr doesn't pause, sliding another arrow into place.
On his right, Nadine Holt stamps her staff twice. Rust‑red tattoos along her arms flare bright; the tip of her staff erupts in a ring of flame that roars across the ground. Creatures caught in the blaze screech and recoil, leaving charred husks in the smoldering circle. Nadine's eyes flash with controlled fury. "Burn in silence," she murmurs.
Ahead, Dante Morello charges barefoot, gauntlets crackling as he vaults a fallen foe. He slams down into a crouching punch—metal meets carapace with a thunderous CRUNCH—and sends the creature sprawling backward. He turns immediately, spinning into a rising elbow strike that crushes another's skull.
From the rear, Min‑Seo Ji's mirrored lenses shimmer. She sweeps her arms in a slow arc, weaving ribbons of prismatic light. Suddenly there are three Min‑Seos, each a perfect copy. Creatures snap at illusions; real Min‑Seo darts through the gap and slits one throat with a hidden dagger.
Thorne Darric stands silent at the center. His obsidian blade rests point‑down in the earth. As a beast lunges for him, he steps forward—no flourish, just a focused thrust. The black steel slides in and out in one smooth motion. When he withdraws the blade, the creature collapses without a sound.
Risan spins back to the group, blades stained and breathing steady. "Clear here," he calls. His chest rises in a slow count; the crescents of his Sigil—still dormant—seem to glow with approval.
Zephyr's bow hums as she relaxes the string. "Forward?" she asks.
Nadine scoops up her staff. "Onward."
Dante cracks his knuckles. "Next."
Min‑Seo gathers her ribbons of light and fades into step beside Risan.
Thorne sheaths his blade with a whisper. "Proceed."
Together, they press through the ring of fallen creatures, formation unbroken, eyes peeled for the next flank of attackers. The Quiet Lands may be silent—but Risan's group moves through it with deadly purpose.
The battlefield lay still now—only the soft wind of the Quiet Lands whispered through the grass, brushing past fallen beasts and weapon marks scorched into the earth. As the last cries faded, the three groups gathered at a shallow incline flanked by crooked stone outcrops. It wasn't ideal, but it offered some natural cover and line of sight.
Weapons were cleaned in silence, blood wiped onto cloth or grass. Kael twirled his whip-sword once before coiling it back to his side. Allen spun his chain dagger, the blade singing as it rewound. G wiped down his chakrams, their golden trim catching the moonlight.
Tents and shelters began going up—minimal and efficient, more for defense than comfort. Luck's group moved with clockwork precision: V hauled gear while still talking, mostly to himself, as Luck and G ignored him with synchronized annoyance. Syrin circled the outer perimeter with an arrow notched but relaxed. Niva etched faint glowing runes into the dirt, while Bran drove small metal stakes into the ground—tripwire sensors crackling to life.
Risan and Zephyr coordinated a sweeping perimeter check with Dante and Min-Seo, each taking a direction, fanning out in calculated silence. Nadine lit small protective flames around the camp's edges, and Thorne planted himself near the highest rock, watching.
Group Twelve worked with quiet focus—Elowen bent over a map, Rorek standing beside her like a mountain, adjusting his blade. Caelindra checked her gear while Soren reset the bolts in his crossbow. Even Risan passed by Kael briefly, giving a nod that acknowledged both competence and vigilance.
They hadn't spoken much since the battle, but there was an unspoken understanding—this was far from over.
When the shelters were set, the fires low and smokeless, and guards quietly rotated, the groups allowed themselves a brief moment of rest.
Just long enough to breathe.
Not long enough to forget where they were.
The battle's echoes faded into the distance, leaving behind scorched grass, shallow craters, and the scent of ozone and blood. As the last of the creatures fell, the three teams began regrouping without needing a command. No one cheered. This wasn't victory—it was survival.
Cautiously, they moved toward a clearing nestled between uneven ridges, shielded on three sides by natural stone walls and gnarled trees with bark like petrified bone. The teams fanned out with practiced rhythm, checking bodies, gathering dropped weapons, and dragging carcasses away from the perimeter.
Allen and Min-Seo traced a rough perimeter of sigils and illusionary markers, setting wards to mask their presence and trigger alerts. Bran and Rorek handled the heavy lifting—hauling stones to form a modest ring, while Zephyr and Elowen scouted the edges, watching for shadows that moved without reason.
No one lit a fire.
Instead, they unpacked rations, energy-restoring herbs, and fabric for bedrolls and windshields. Caelindra and Niva worked together in silence, mending armor and patching torn sleeves, while Dante and G kept watch on opposite edges of the camp, weapons still in hand.
V tried to tell a story—something dramatic, involving a collapsing building and a giant snake—but was shushed by three separate people before he even got to the second sentence. He sulked with exaggerated volume, only quieting once Luck gave him a flat glare.
Kael ran a cloth down his whip-sword, his mind elsewhere. Risan stood nearby, facing the wind, eyes scanning the horizon. The Quiet Lands lived up to its name now—too much so. Even the breeze seemed to hold its breath.
They all felt it, even if none said it: the creatures hadn't been the true danger. Not yet.
And night was approaching.