Asil quickly shook off the impact, carefully untangling herself from the trembling group of prisoners. Her eyes locked onto the three towering orc guards who blocked the shack’s entrance, each hulking figure bristling with malice and eagerness for violence. Two gripped cruel clubs embedded with rusted spikes, while the largest sneered confidently, pointing the jagged tip of a broken spear directly at her chest.

  She knelt defiantly, forcing calm into her breathing even as her heart thundered within her chest. Raising her bound wrists slowly, palms outward in a mock gesture of surrender, she strained against the magic-infused shackles suppressing her powers. Her abilities still felt like they were sealed behind an impenetrable barrier, frustratingly just out of reach. She narrowed her eyes slightly, muscles tensed, waiting for the slightest opening.

  “I’m gonna enjoy breakin’ you,” the spear-wielding orc sneered, baring yellowed tusks as he met her unyielding stare. He jabbed the spear menacingly towards her face, stopping inches away.

  Another guard, smaller but no less sinister, chuckled maliciously. “Ozmian ain’t here no more. Nobody left to stop us havin’ our fun.”

  Asil’s lips slowly curled into a dangerous smile, fueling the orc’s growing frustration. She moved carefully, attempting to rise from her knees, but the spear-orc responded swiftly, slamming the spear’s wooden shaft painfully into her shoulder. Asil grunted softly as she dropped back down, but her hands remained raised defiantly, eyes blazing with quiet fury.

  “Did I give you permission to stand?” he snarled, frustrated by her continued silence. He leaned forward, eyes flickering towards Abby. “Maybe we’ll start with your friend. Make you watch.”

  In that instant, Asil exploded into motion. She lunged upwards with a speed honed from months of relentless training and battle. Her suppressed skills may have rendered her abilities useless, but the strength and agility she had painstakingly built through sweat and blood were very much intact.

  In a fluid blur, she seized the spear, ripping it from the orc’s grip. Before he could react, she rolled beneath a spiked club swung by his companion, thrusting upwards to drive the spear beneath the guard’s jaw, instantly ending his life. Continuing her momentum, she spun gracefully, slicing the spear blade deeply across the spear-orc’s throat. Crimson sprayed the shack’s walls as he collapsed soundlessly to the ground.

  The third orc, startled and fumbling, barely had time to raise his club before Asil shattered the spear’s shaft against his temple with deadly force. He collapsed lifelessly, joining his comrades on the floor.

  Behind her, Abby and the three prisoners stared, mouths agape, barely processing the sudden flurry of violence. Before Asil could even check on Abby, more guards stormed into the small shack, weapons raised. The first, wielding a massive axe, was already swinging down toward her head.

  Instinctively, Asil crossed her shackled wrists above her face. Sparks flashed as the axe blade collided violently against her cuffs, sending powerful vibrations rippling down her arms. The impact hurled her backwards, and she twisted mid-air, shielding Abby and the frightened prisoners from the worst of the collision.

  “Get back!” Asil shouted to the others. She had already sprung to her feet in a defensive crouch, her eyes locked onto her attackers.

  Suddenly, deep within her chest, she felt a surge; a wild, unchecked torrent of power finally breaking free. Her breath caught as the magic suppression shattered, its weakening grip unraveling rapidly. She glanced swiftly at her cuffs, now spider-webbed with glowing cracks, sparks flickering erratically around her wrists.

  A surge of exhilaration and relief flooded through her veins. With an unyielding cry, she slammed her wrists powerfully against the ground, shattering the cuffs into glittering fragments.

  Instantly, a familiar power washed over her. Her pouch materialized at her side, and without hesitation, she summoned her trusted blade, gripping it tightly as she rose.

  The lead orc barely had time to register surprise before Asil’s blade separated his head cleanly from his shoulders. Her sword became a blur, swift and precise, as she dispatched the next three guards, their bodies crumpling atop one another before they could even swing their weapons.

  Spinning around, she met Abby’s knowing gaze. The girl had already anticipated Asil’s intent and held her wrists up confidently. With a precise swing, Abby’s cuffs shattered, her abilities surging as she swiftly re-equipped herself for battle.

  The tiny shack quickly became a chaotic battleground. Two more orcs rushed forward, clambering awkwardly over their fallen comrades, desperately trying to corner Asil and Abby. The confined space limited their swings, but sheer mass threatened to overwhelm the two warriors as the dead bodies piled higher, pressing heavily against them and pinning Asil’s arms momentarily.

  Asil gritted her teeth, struggling under the weight. The relentless pressure increased, but she refused to panic. Abby’s eyes widened as she struggled to free herself, aware of the escalating danger.

  From outside, they heard more guards rallying, boots pounding relentlessly toward their position. For a brief moment, everything seemed to freeze until an overwhelming surge of fury and resolve ignited within Asil’s core.

  With even more orcs pouring relentlessly into the tiny shack, Asil and Abby were pressed harshly against the far wall, pinned by the suffocating weight of the fallen. Asil desperately strained to reach her weapon, fingertips just inches away yet frustratingly beyond grasp. The two elves and the dwarf cried out in panicked anguish, their screams muffled as the lifeless bodies crushed against them, threatening to bury them alive beneath the grim tide of death.

  Viktus was struggling to keep pace with Asil. She darted between ramshackle shacks and twisted alleyways like a shadow on fire, her body moving with fierce purpose and unrelenting speed. He followed as best he could, ducking low, trying to remain unseen, but the flood of guards tailing her made that impossible. The encampment erupted into a frenzy, orcs barking orders, iron boots pounding on packed earth as they swarmed toward one unassuming shack.

  He turned just in time to see Asil vanish inside, three guards only a step behind her, pushing through the door like bloodhounds. More were coming from the other side; too many. Viktus moved forward to help, ready to sell his life for hers if it came to that. But he didn’t get the chance.

  Rough hands grabbed him from behind, slamming him hard into the ground. The old king’s breath left him in a painful grunt as two massive orcs pinned him there, their grips like iron vices. Viktus could do nothing but watch, helpless, as more and more guards crowded into the tiny structure. The muffled sounds of struggle, steel, and snarling rage echoed out.

  “Abby…” he whispered, the name torn from his lips like a prayer. A single tear escaped down his weathered cheek, followed by another, until a torrent fell freely. He’d failed her. Failed all of them.

  Then the side of the shack exploded.

  The blast ripped outward with a thunderous force, launching orcs and splinters into the air. Viktus recoiled instinctively, shielding his face from the flying debris. Dust choked the air. Screams followed. He forced himself up on his elbows, the grip on his arms slackened by shock.

  And then, for a heartbeat, just a flash, he saw her.

  Asil stood amid the carnage, sword drawn, her body coiled in perfect form. Her eyes blazed crimson, her gear fully summoned, blood misting around her like a war goddess reborn. Then she vanished, blurred in a streak of motion. Screams followed. One orc fell, then another. She was everywhere. Cutting. Striking. Untouchable.

  The orc atop Viktus began to move again, snapping out of his frozen fear. Realizing too late that his captive was slipping free, he snarled and raised a dagger for the kill. Viktus winced, expecting the blade.

  He felt its tip graze his neck, then stop.

  The weight vanished from his chest. The orc toppled backward, throat opened cleanly. Viktus blinked in disbelief, his heart pounding.

  Abby stood behind the corpse, shadow and fire in her eyes.

  She didn’t look at him; she just whispered, “Keep them safe,” before vanishing back into the chaos like a ghost. Her presence lingered like the echo of a war drum in his soul.

  Dazed, Viktus sat up and caught sight of three figures huddled between the nearby shacks: two elves and a dwarf. They were trembling, tears streaking their faces. Despite their rugged appearances, their innocence clung to them like a second skin. Viktus’s heart clenched.

  He hesitated for only a second. Abby had made her choice; his path was clear.

  He approached slowly, hands raised, voice soft. “Come now. It’s safe, for the moment. Let’s get you out of here.”

  They flinched at first but relaxed as his tone registered. The female elf reached for his hand, followed by the dwarf. The second elf stood shakily, still crying.

  Viktus ushered them along the outer paths, keeping low. Behind them, the camp burned with sound and motion. Ahead, only shadows remained, and the trail of destruction carved by Asil and Abby remained.

  Asil barely registered the countdown in her journal as berserker rage surged through her veins. Time didn’t matter; only motion. Her sword became an extension of her will, cleaving through orcs like they were made of straw. She didn’t think; she danced. Each step, a blur of steel and blood. Every swing, fueled by instinct and fury.

  And she danced.

  Abby used the chaos like a veil. Her blade found those who tried to flank or flee; the cowards and opportunists. Some orcs rushed toward Asil only to fall by Abby’s silent vengeance. Others tried to escape, only to find death in the shadows.

  While the tempest raged, Abby left the frightened beta players in Viktus’s care. They hadn’t spoken a word, but Abby understood. Asil’s presence, fiery and commanding, had passed her a silent directive. Trust me. I’ve got this.

  That instinct carried Abby beyond the heart of battle into a quieter corner of the encampment. Nestled between crumbling buildings, she found it: a low, iron-fenced animal pen. Inside, bound in chains that shimmered with enchantment, a massive wolf snarled and snapped at two bored orc sentries.

  Abby’s eyes widened. “Lucia,” she breathed.

  She didn't hesitate. Slipping between shadows, she crept behind the guards and slit their throats in near-perfect silence. The moment the second one hit the ground, she was tackled to the ground by fur, not fists.

  “Hold on, girl!” Abby said, laughing through the slobbery onslaught.

  Lucia relented long enough for Abby to snatch the key from the orc’s belt. With a satisfying click, the collar fell away. The wolf shimmered; dachshund, then wolf again; testing her range of freedom. But there was no time to celebrate. Lucia’s ears pricked.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The wolf’s eyes narrowed. Teeth bared.

  Lucia lunged.

  Abby turned in time to see three orcs barreling toward her. They never made it. One moment they stood, the next they were torn apart in a blur of claws, fangs, and fury.

  Together again, girl and wolf stalked the edges of chaos, striking down stragglers, moving as one. They made their way toward the encampment’s main gate, still sealed tight.

  As they darted behind a shack, they nearly collided with Viktus, who was standing protectively in front of the three trembling prisoners.

  “King Viktus!?!” Abby exclaimed, recognition dawning; not just from the encampment… but from the vision; the one Vee showed us… Her voice caught with the sting of betrayal and confusion.

  “No time, lass,” Viktus said, eyes scanning for threats. He pulled Abby into the shadows. Lucia growled at his touch, but Abby calmed her with a hand. Something about the old man’s grip was… familiar. Safe.

  They moved quickly, Viktus weaving them through the narrow alleys left in Asil’s wake. They were nearly to the gates when it happened.

  The battle cries… stopped.

  Turning a corner, they froze.

  Asil knelt in the dirt, her blade dragging beside her, surrounded by nearly two dozen guards. Behind her lay a mountain of bodies, a testament to her fury. But now, she could barely lift her sword.

  Abby surged forward, but Viktus caught her and pulled her back into cover.

  Lucia didn't hesitate.

  The wolf tore across the battlefield, aiming for the largest of the orcs. He was a beast; over seven feet tall, thick with muscle. With a single arm, he swatted Lucia out of the air. She crashed into the dirt with a yelp, unmoving.

  Abby’s cry was muffled by Viktus’s hand. They could only watch.

  The giant orc stepped forward, sneering down at the warrior queen.

  “I hope you enjoyed your little tantrum,” he said, beckoning two guards forward with fresh shackles.

  Asil tried to lift her sword, but the berserker state had drained her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even cry out. Only wait.

  Then, music.

  Soft. Distant. The pluck of a lute on a breeze that didn’t exist.

  “Breathe, brave heart, and beat once more,

  From weary bone to spirit’s core.

  Let battle’s weight now drift like wind,

  Rise anew; your strength rescind!”

  Asil’s eyes fluttered. She knew this wasn’t her imagination. The words curled around her soul like a balm.

  The orc laughed as the shackles drew close.

  “When fire fades and hope runs thin,

  Let melody stir might within.

  By breath, by beat, by song you stand;

  Renew your soul, reclaim the land!”

  Then, an arrow.

  It struck the lead orc in the chest with a dull thunk. He looked down at it and scoffed.

  “Is that all you…”

  BOOM.

  Arcane fire erupted, vaporizing his upper body in a plume of magical light. The guards stumbled back, stunned.

  One reached again for Asil.

  He never got the chance.

  She looked up, her eyes now twin embers of rage. Her mouth curled into a wicked smile.

  “And should I fall, I rise once more,

  A storm reborn from battle’s roar.

  So mark this tune, let silence bend;

  For this is not the bitter end.”

  One week earlier…

  The war room at Fort Hajill was dimly lit, the flickering oil sconces casting long shadows across the faces of those gathered around the worn stone table. Maps, parchment scrolls, and a few clumsily drawn diagrams cluttered the center, but no one paid them any mind. Tension, unspoken and taut, hummed in the air.

  Gideon, Frederick, Eamon, Rowan, and a now-fully healed Cressa stood shoulder-to-shoulder before the fort's commanders, Loren and Bonvil. Each of them had haunted eyes and the echo of something strange and powerful lingering in their thoughts.

  “We all saw her,” Eamon said quietly. “The same dream. A sourceress, cloaked in shadow and fire. She called herself Vee.”

  “She said Asil and Abby were taken,” Cressa added, frowning. “That they need us.”

  Bonvil’s weathered brow furrowed. “And you’re sure it wasn’t just some mass delusion? You five have been dabbling in strange powers lately.”

  “It wasn’t a dream,” Gideon replied, firm. “Not like any dream I’ve ever had.”

  Frederick nodded in agreement, arms crossed, jaw clenched. “It was a message. A warning. She showed us the Dark Wizard holding the third key… and said we’re the only ones who can stop what’s coming.”

  Bonvil scoffed, pushing away from the table and pacing. “Groach,” he muttered, cursing in old tongue. “First, the return of the Source, now prophecy?”

  Loren didn’t flinch. Thanks to Eamon's healing rune magic, the former soldier’s limp had been nearly erased. He watched the group of young Source-touched warriors calmly, eyes sharp despite his age.

  “They’ve proven themselves, Bonvil. You saw what they did in training,” Loren said. “And you’ve seen what Serena’s done.”

  The mention of the orphan girl brought silence to the room.

  Serena had arrived at Hajill weeks ago with her brother, quiet and unassuming. But one touch of her hand on Gideon’s forehead had put him in a coma-like state for nearly a full day, and when he awoke, the elf wasn’t just conscious. He had been classed as a Hunter, with abilities none of them had ever witnessed in the real world before. Arcane arrows conjured from mana. Heightened perception. Tracking magic.

  Since then, Serena had walked the fort’s grounds with a quiet, unerring purpose. She found those with dormant potential and woke it within them. Frederick, the stoic son of Bonvil, became an Echoblade, gifted with glimpses of possible futures and devastating swordplay. Cressa, strong and focused, found herself wielding earth-shaking magic as a Stonecaller. Eamon’s ink-stained hands revealed him to be an Inkewright, a rune mage who could imbue power through symbols. And Rowan, the mysterious recruit with his ever-present lute, had emerged as a Chordweaver, a bard-class with the ability to enhance his allies with melody and spell-song.

  Their abilities had blossomed. Their purpose had become clear.

  But Bonvil couldn’t stop seeing them as children.

  Frederick saw the storm coming and tried to head it off. “We’re going,” he said softly, yet with a strength that cut through the air like steel.

  Bonvil snapped, slamming a fist on the table. “I AM STILL YOUR FATHER.”

  “I know,” Frederick said. “And because you are… I have to go.”

  For a moment, the room was silent but for the low crackle of fire. Then Bonvil, trembling, placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, his grip both proud and heartbroken. “Then don’t die, you little groach.”

  Loren stepped forward, rallying them. “We’ve got two; no, three; of our own in danger. Asil, Abby… and Lucia.” He raised a brow at the group.

  “Agreed,” said Cressa. “We were given these powers for a reason. This is the reason.”

  Rowan stepped forward from the back of the room, his fingers brushing the strings of his lute.

  “We have a plan,” he said, voice soft but clear. “A way in.”

  The others turned to face him.

  “We met last night,” Frederick added. “Rowan and I couldn’t sleep after the dream. We mapped out the vision’s symbols. Cross-referenced it with everything Vee showed us. There’s a weak spot in the Shadow Realm’s veil. A place where a portal might be forced open from this side.”

  “Dangerous,” Eamon muttered.

  “Exactly,” Rowan said. “And perfectly timed.”

  He strummed a chord that pulsed faintly with arcane energy, the magic echoing like distant thunder. “I think it’s time the world remembers what real heroes look like.”

  Bonvil shook his head, but this time it wasn’t in frustration; it was in awe.

  “These kids,” he whispered to Loren. “They’re not kids anymore.”

  Loren smiled grimly. “No. They stand between the Dark Wizard and the end of this world.”

  The music.

  It drifted like wind through Asil’s battered senses, haunting, ethereal, too beautiful to belong to the hellscape that surrounded her. She was certain it was a dream, a hallucination. The words threaded through her fading awareness like a silken thread.

  The towering orc’s laughter shook the ground. The two guards approached with manacles, but Asil barely resisted. Her strength was spent. Her rage, her will, her fight burned to embers.

  Let them take me, she thought numbly. I brought enough of them down with me.

  She sagged in surrender as one orc grasped her limp arm, the manacle raised to bind her. But before the shackle could close, the largest of the guards, the warchief, erupted into a cloud of arcane light. There was no time for gasps. One moment he stood proud, and the next, pieces of him rained down across the field like molten shrapnel.

  The remaining guard hesitated. Shock and fear flickered in his eyes as he fumbled to clasp the binding quickly.

  Too late.

  The last line of the bard's song whispered through her mind as her senses surged back like a tidal wave. The berserker skill reawakened, igniting her soul with wild energy, not as a command but as a gift. No cooldown. No timer. Just fury.

  Crimson light flared in her eyes.

  The orc’s last sight was Asil’s predatory, defiant smile before his world spun sideways and ended in a spray of gore.

  She was on her feet before the bodies hit the ground.

  A whirlwind of steel and vengeance, Asil tore through the remaining orcs with brutal precision. Behind her, the gates to the prison camp exploded inward, battered open by a force unseen. Through the shattered entrance, new warriors poured into the chaos.

  Abby skidded to a halt beside a collapsed Lucia, the wolf lying unconscious and barely breathing. She spun around, daggers already in hand, stopping just short of a fatal strike;

  “Eamon?!”

  “No time,” the healer said, already kneeling beside the beast.

  He pulled several rune-etched parchments from his pouch, selecting one and pressing it to Lucia’s side—the magic dissolved in a pulse of light. The wolf stirred, whined, and slumped again.

  “It’s working,” Eamon murmured. “She’ll live.”

  He stood to leave, pulling out another rune and folding it into the shape of a bird. The parchment grew with arcane speed, soaring off into the fray and slashing through a pack of orcs.

  Abby turned back. “You good, girl?”

  Lucia growled low and steady. Then she was gone, leaping back into battle.

  Abby vanished into the shadows, reappearing beside a cornered Cressa just in time to take down two flanking orcs. The women exchanged nods before Abby faded again into the smoke.

  Meanwhile, Viktus guided the three children, the two elves and a dwarven man, through the wreckage toward the gate. He was met by Rowan, strumming his lute, pouring the last of his mana into the song that had awakened Asil’s fury.

  Just beyond them, a shimmering portal awaited.

  Rowan nodded, his fingers trembling. As the final chord echoed, his knees buckled. An orc’s dying blow caught his leg, dropping him to the ground.

  At the same moment, the music ended, Asil collapsed.

  The borrowed rage left her in an instant, and her body gave out.

  Eamon rushed in, healing Rowan’s leg with practiced precision. But there was nothing left to keep Asil on her feet; no song, no spell, no strength. Her role was done.

  Cressa and Abby scrambled to Asil’s side, lifting her gently and draping her across Lucia’s broad back. The wolf grunted but bore the weight. They hurried toward the portal as more orcs poured in from all directions.

  Gideon and Frederick held the rear, blades flashing, clearing the path.

  Abby shepherded the children through one by one, keeping them safe, until she stood alone at the threshold.

  Veronica, Vee, stood across the way, waiting, silent.

  Abby froze. Fury welled in her throat, hot and heavy. The betrayal. The lies. The dreams they once shared, poisoned.

  Viktus appeared beside the sorceress, placing a steadying hand on her back. The gesture was tender and familiar.

  Abby opened her mouth, not knowing if it was to curse or question, but the roar of the orcs was growing close.

  She stepped through the portal, then turned, locking eyes with the old man.

  “I belong here,” Viktus said quietly.

  But Abby wasn’t looking at Vee anymore. Her heart seized in her chest as the realization crashed over her like a hammer.

  As the portal began to seal, she screamed it:

  “MIKE!”

  The gate closed with a whisper.

  On the other side, Abby dropped to her knees, breathless and broken. Viktus was Michael, her brother.