The meeting room inside the Arcane Core was dimly lit, the walls lined with ancient maps and tactical schematics from wars long past. Heavy velvet curtains muffled the world beyond, making it feel as though time itself had slowed to a crawl.

  Pag sat at a long, scarred oak table, a steaming mug of something bitter and bracing cradled between his hands. Across from him, Aviva leaned over a spread of parchment maps, their hood thrown back, silver hair spilling down their shoulders like liquid moonlight.

  "We don't have long," Aviva said, tapping a gloved finger against a marked location on the map—a cluster of ruins deep within the Shattered Range. "Cael'Brith. The Fallen Temple."

  Pag frowned, scanning the faded ink and ragged edges.

  "It's cursed, isn't it?" he asked.

  "Cursed, abandoned, heavily warded, and infested with whatever decided it liked living in a place saturated with raw, untamed magic," Aviva confirmed dryly. "But it’s also where the Emberborn Seal is buried. And it's starting to react."

  Pag leaned closer, reading the smaller notations: ley line fractures, unstable mana surges, sightings of twisted fauna.

  "And the Empire knows," he said grimly.

  "They know," Aviva agreed, voice tight. "Our scouts intercepted Imperial Inquisitors moving into the border towns near the Range. We estimate they’ll reach the temple within the week."

  Pag exhaled slowly, feeling the ember inside him respond—not with chaos this time, but a deep, slow burn of purpose.

  "What's the objective?" he asked.

  Aviva’s gaze sharpened.

  "Secure the relic. Destroy it if you can't. Under no circumstances are you to let the Lunar Empire have it. Not intact. Not broken. Not at all."

  She slid another parchment across the table: a sketched cross-section of the ruins.

  "Entry points are limited. Main gate is suicide—too exposed. There’s a collapsed service tunnel here," she tapped a point on the northern wall, "that should lead us in beneath the first layer of defenses."

  Pag studied the sketch.

  "We?" he echoed.

  Aviva gave a thin smile.

  "You think we’re sending you alone? You’re good, Pag. Better than most, even now. But you’re not stupid enough to think you can outfight an Imperial strike team solo."

  She pulled out a folded list: names, roles, ranks.

  "You'll have backup. Small team. Strike and extraction specialists."

  Pag’s fingers drummed against the mug.

  "Who?"

  Aviva smiled wider.

  "Ellen. Borin. Faelan."

  Pag blinked.

  "They're alive?"

  "More than alive," Aviva said, tone approving. "They’re volunteering."

  Something inside Pag eased—just slightly.

  He nodded once.

  "And how do we approach?" he asked. "What’s the actual plan?"

  Aviva’s smile faded, replaced by the cold, calculating expression Pag had come to recognize as her 'commander face.'

  "You get us inside," she said. "You navigate the magical hazards—you're the only one who can handle the Emberborn emissions safely. Ellen and Borin will secure the perimeters and fallback routes. Faelan will cover infiltration and elimination of threats."

  She paused.

  "If we get pinned, you’re to prioritize the relic. Not us."

  Pag stared at her.

  "No," he said immediately.

  "Pag—"

  "No."

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  He stood, the chair scraping harshly against the stone.

  "I'm not leaving anyone behind. Not again."

  Aviva watched him for a long moment, something flickering in her silvered eyes.

  Then she nodded.

  "Good," she said quietly. "You're going to need that stubbornness where we're going."

  She rolled up the maps, handed him a sealed scroll.

  "Memorize everything on this. Burn it after."

  Pag accepted it without hesitation.

  "When do we leave?"

  Aviva’s smile returned, cold and fierce.

  "Tonight."

  The Arcane Core's armory was a vault of silent menace, tucked beneath a hundred feet of stone and magic. Rows of gear gleamed coldly in the dim light — spell-forged weapons, reinforced armor, relics sealed in glass and iron.

  Pag stood at a preparation table, securing the last buckles on his reinforced travel leathers. His new gear was lighter than his old Core armor, designed for speed, flexibility—and survival against unpredictable magic.

  A battered pack lay beside him, stocked with bare essentials: ration kits, mana dampeners, alchemical flares, and two last-resort breaching crystals.

  Ellen adjusted the harness of her twin daggers, her usual easy grin replaced by a tense focus. Faelan strung a black-hafted longbow, the string humming faintly with stored mana, eyes distant and calculating. Borin muttered under his breath as he tested the weight of a brutal two-handed maul crackling faintly with kinetic enchantments.

  Pag exhaled and turned to them.

  "Last chance to back out," he said, voice low.

  Ellen snorted. "Miss a chance to see you set yourself on fire again? Not a chance."

  Faelan gave a slight nod. "Owe you. Besides, better with numbers."

  Borin just grunted, tightening a strap across his chest. "We’re wasting night."

  Meowtimer entered then, silent as ever.

  The Altacian’s golden eyes swept over them once, measuring, weighing.

  "You move fast. You move unseen," he said. "The Empire will already have agents sniffing the Range. Avoid entanglements if you can. End them swiftly if you cannot."

  He stopped in front of Pag.

  "And remember," he added, voice a low growl only Pag could hear, "if the relic calls to you... resist. It was sealed for a reason."

  Pag nodded grimly.

  Meowtimer stepped aside.

  "Go."

  They moved like ghosts across the broken landscape.

  The Shattered Range loomed under the pale half-moon, jagged teeth of stone reaching toward the sky.

  Valleys twisted in unnatural ways, cliffs rose where none should stand, and long-dead rivers shimmered under a cold, sorcerous light.

  The air was thick with mana distortion, twisting their senses—turning sound into phantom whispers, light into false paths.

  Pag kept to the center, feeling the ember inside him stir and guide him, helping him sense where reality thinned and where the wild magic grew dangerously thick.

  Twice, Faelan’s hand shot up in warning.

  Once to avoid a wandering mass of floating, predatory mana—a gelatinous cloud of spell residue that dissolved anything it touched.

  Once to sidestep a stretch of earth that shifted and slithered like a living thing.

  Progress was slow.

  Tense.

  Every shadow could hide an enemy—or something worse.

  Halfway through the second canyon pass, the sky broke open.

  A wild magic storm rolled over the mountains without warning—no clouds, no rain—just raw, unformed mana pouring down like sleet, singing on the stone and sizzling against their armor.

  "Shields up!" Pag barked.

  Ellen flicked a crystal out of her pouch, triggering a temporary mana ward. Borin raised a battered shield etched with anti-magic sigils. Faelan wrapped a black-dyed cloak tighter around himself, his movements calm and precise.

  Pag summoned a field of controlled ember energy around them—a barrier of low, crackling flame that burned away the worst of the distortion.

  They pressed forward through the storm, each step a battle.

  Pag felt the ember whispering, hungry in the chaos.

  It wanted to burn. To flare. To unleash itself against the storm and the world alike.

  But Pag clenched his jaw, forced it into submission.

  Not yet.

  Not here.

  They emerged from the canyon into a hollow basin, only a few miles from Cael'Brith’s ruins.

  That’s when Faelan hissed sharply.

  Pag followed his gaze—and his blood went cold.

  Across the basin, illuminated faintly by mana storms, a formation of armored figures moved with military precision.

  Crescent-moon insignias glinted under the unnatural light.

  >Enemy Identified: Lunar Empire Vanguard Scouts Elite Forward Unit. Highly trained. Likely attached to a Strike Battalion.<

  Pag quickly counted.

  Eight soldiers.

  One mage—his robes trailing tendrils of binding spells behind him like smoke.

  They hadn't been seen yet.

  Pag dropped into a crouch behind a twisted boulder, signaling the others to follow.

  "Options?" Ellen whispered.

  Pag narrowed his eyes, thinking fast.

  If they tried to slip past, the scouts might stumble across them anyway once inside the ruins.

  If they attacked now, they risked alerting larger forces nearby.

  "We take them," Pag said grimly. "Quick. Silent."

  Faelan nocked an arrow without a word.

  Borin grinned, baring his teeth.

  Ellen spun her daggers once, then disappeared into the gloom.

  Pag closed his eyes for one heartbeat.

  He felt the ember stir, eager, ready to burn.

  Not yet.

  He opened his eyes.

  "On my mark."