Tobal knelt at the ravine’s edge, knees sinking into frost-crusted stone dusted with ash, the dawn sky streaking gold and deep indigo above, living mystical fog curling through the air. The cold stung—sharp with frost and a faint whiff of charred earth—his blue militia coat, blood-streaked and frayed, hanging loose on his broad frame. His scarred face etched with fierce resolve, short dark hair clinging damp to his brow, he traced a crack in the stone with a calloused finger, the medallion pulsing gold in his other hand, its hum threading a quiet fire through his veins.
Fiona stood apart, her sky blue gown tattered and streaked with soot, swaying in the wind near a jagged outcrop. Her chestnut hair spilled loose, knotted from the fight, golden threads humming faintly as she scanned the horizon—her breath fogged slow, eyes narrowing as she gauged the rift’s distant shimmer, her lean frame poised with a restless spark. Rafe leaned against a cracked boulder, his wiry frame slouched in a patched cloak of faded green and gray, knife tucked into his belt—his eyes glinted with a quiet smirk, one hand picking at a frayed thread, the dawn casting shadows across his angur face.
Becca paced restlessly, her torn cloak of deep brown and russet snapping with each step, red hair tangled and wild. Her fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening, her sharp gaze darting to the rift—her breath came quick, a faint flush on her cheeks betraying a heat she didn’t voice. Cal rose slowly, brushing frost from his hands, his wiry frame unfolding as he stepped toward the shimmer—his tangled brown hair damp with mist, a low hum escaping his lips as he tracked its pulse, a flicker of steel in his pale eyes. Valentine bounded forward, his shaggy gray-brown fur streaked with mud, nose twitching as he sniffed the air near the rift—his ears flicked, a soft whine rising as the hum of renewal threaded through the ravine.
Tobal tilted his head, the rift’s pulse thrumming under his touch—faint, living—vibrating through the stone. The air shifted—crisp with frost and a hint of something molten—gold light seeping through the cracks. He gnced up—eyes catching the Knights—his voice a rough murmur, steady in the stillness. “We forge it here.” The medallion fred—gold light spilling soft—his scarred hand pressed harder into the earth, a spark of renewal threading his pulse. A pebble skittered—a faint wind stirred—his jaw tightened.
Rafe flicked a loose stone with his boot, his smirk softening as he squinted at the rift. “Forge what? Us or that thing?” His tone lilted—dry, curious—Valentine’s whine sharpened, the dog circling closer to the shimmer. Rafe scratched his jaw, his lean frame shifting as the fog thickened around him.
Fiona turned, her gown rustling against the stone, golden threads flickering as she pointed toward the rift’s edge. “Both,” she said—voice low, edged—her gaze cutting to Rafe, fingers brushing a tangle from her hair, the cold stinging her skin. Her eyes flicked to Tobal’s—a shared fire glinting briefly—her stance easing as the rift’s hum grew. A faint shimmer pulsed—distant, vivid—her breath steadied, focus locking in.
Becca stopped pacing, pnting her feet wide, her fists loosening as she tilted her chin up. “Then let’s shape it.” Her voice cut through—raw, eager—her sharp gaze sweeping from Fiona to Cal, a restless energy coiling in her frame. The rift’s pulse quickened—near, living—she cracked her knuckles, frost dusting her boots.
Cal stepped closer, his wiry frame taut, his damp hair catching the dawn’s gold as he pointed at the rift. “Shape what’s left.” His words hung—quiet, sure—a faint tremor in his fingers, a spark of resolve cutting through his pale eyes. The hum deepened—steady, living—his stance rooted as he exhaled.
Tobal stood, medallion bzing in his fist, his scarred face hardening as he shook frost from his coat. “Ourselves,” he said—gruff, low—his free hand brushing Valentine’s muddy fur, the dog leaning into him with a soft huff. The medallion’s glow surged—its hum threading his voice—his chest fred, a raw renewal surging through him. A gust whipped the fog—light danced—Cal’s eyes met his, a faint nod passing between them.
Valentine darted forward—paws scraped stone—a sharp bark echoed as he nosed the rift’s edge, fur streaked and wild. Tobal stepped closer, his scarred hand flexing—something molten churned in his gut, a murmur of purpose rising. “Mold it!” Rafe called—voice light, teasing—his frame peeling off the rock, knife still sheathed as he stretched. The rift fred—gold threading shadow—Fiona’s threads hummed, tracing new patterns—her voice sliced the air. “Hold it steady!” Tobal’s gaze struck Rafe—hard, living—his murmur rough. “Forge the rift.” He reached toward the shimmer—fingers brushing frost—the wind curling sharp with renewal.
The dawn swelled—gold streaked the ravine, fog thinning as the rift’s pulse steadied beneath them. A distant hiss faded—soft, gone—Becca’s shoulders eased, her breath slowing as she flexed her hands. Tobal cpped Cal’s back—medallion glowing soft—his grip firm, a hum thrumming in his ears, his broad chest tight with purpose. “We rebuild it,” he said—voice low, scratched—frost biting his lips. Cal’s mouth twitched—a half-smile breaking—a quiet strength rooting as the rift held.
Fiona’s threads wove tight—gold shimmering faintly—her gaze slid to Becca, dawn light catching the sweat on her brow. “It’s ours,” Becca said—voice steady, bold—her restless energy simmering, her frame solid as she nodded. The rift pulsed—near, living—Fiona’s hair lifted in the wind, a faint curve to her lips. “Mold it now.” Rafe chuckled—soft, dry—his hands jamming into his cloak as he sauntered closer, wiry frame loose with a flicker of thrill. Tobal dipped his head—medallion steady—wind whispering low, a hum of renewal threading near, a promise of what’s forged. The Knights stood—scarred, living—dawn breaking over the ravine.
