Jacob nodded once—sharp, decisive. Like the snap of a blade returning home to its sheath.
"Then let's make this count," he murmured.
They moved together. The first steps were awkward, uncertain—two minds tethered to one rhythm. But then connor's prosthetic leg found its pace. Strong. Steady. The limp faded, replaced by a synchronicity that felt forged rather than learned, like old gears finally locking into place.
Jacob's fingers danced across the summoning menu.
Around them, five silhouettes blinked into view—flickering shapes of armor, glitching with static, caught between dimensions. Still charging. Still returning.
And then came the light—the manifestation of a promise kept, a guardian defeated, a bond reforged.
Oathfire Regalia.
It gleamed with a tempered brilliance—celestial bronze laced with storm-worn silver, both metals steeped in the fury and unwavering loyalty of the slain Strifelion guardian. The breastplate pulsed with life, an elegant weave of deep crimson and war-drenched azure. Roaring lion motifs snarled from its surface, their maws carved wide as if challenging the gods themselves. Gold filigree raced across the edges like lightning trapped mid-strike, while faint Rage Brand runes glowed across the heartplate—evidence of the beast's will that once refused death.
A single ribbon spiraled around the torso—red, ethereal, alive. It moved with the wearer's breath, flaring like a sentient flame in battle. Once the soul-bind tether of the Strifelion, it now answered only to its slayers—granting them unnatural agility and moments of flight borne from memory and defiance.
The pauldrons took the shape of roaring lion heads, each socket aglow with a lingering ember of the guardian's rage. The armguards and greaves bore etched clouds and broken chains—reminders of duty fulfilled only in death's second embrace.
Above the shoulders, a floating aureate ring rotated slowly, its glow soft but steady. A relic of a divine assignment long ago. It thrummed with quiet power, linking the armor to something greater—something between mortal resolve and celestial memory.
Jacob watched the armor stabilize, its form anchoring to their shared body with eerie precision.
"Even if they break," he said under his breath, "they'll buy us time."
Connor said nothing. He stepped forward, hands humming as energy surged through his palms. Spears began to form—shaped from the memories of war and magnetized will.
Weapons they'd once wielded. Weapons born to fly.
And then—they launched.
The armor wrapped around their conjoined form as if it had always been meant for two. No gaps. No compromise. The fit was seamless, sculpted by destiny, like the guardian's soul had seen them coming from the very beginning.
—
Back on the battlefield—
The storm had already begun.
Geveno stood at the center, wielding a weapon that wasn't truly there. Not steel. Not forged. A frame of raw flame, shaped like a crescent moon—streams of fire braided into one blazing arc. Each time it was drawn, it warped the air with heat, bending sound into a low, resonant hum. The hilt pulsed between molten gold and ember-black, syncing with the heartbeat of its wielder. It didn't burn—it breathed.
The bow formed only when called.
Drawn from the space between moments, the arrow ignited like phoenix-fire. A shaft of condensed flame, the tip glowing with electric heat. Its fletching trailed embers like a comet's tail. And when fired, it didn't whistle—it roared, tearing through the air with a golden arc of destruction.
It didn't pierce—it detonated.
A bloom of light and flame. Silent at first. Then a deafening whoomph that sent enemies flying, battle stances shattered in an instant.
Gevena carried the same fire. Her sword mirrored his—a living blade of flame, no steel in sight. It flickered with gold and crimson edges, molten and wild, sparks falling like dying stars. The very air rippled around it.
Lyle saw them, and instinct took over. His bow shimmered into existence.
To Lyle, this wasn't chaos.
It was war math.
Soul Script danced across his vision in clean lines. Every variable accounted for. Every potential outcome flickering in his mind. He knew Geveno should've struck him down already—that was the path, the most likely future. But the others—Ramsey, Markus, Finn, Rowan, Aria—they changed the formula. Their presence added new threads, disrupting destiny.
"Ramsey."
Ramsey heard his name and moved without hesitation. He surged forward, fire swirling around his fists. He didn't wait. He didn't ask. He answered—filling Lyle's opening like a key in a lock.
He charged Geveno, deactivating the bow and summoning a sleek gauntlet. Ramsey threw a heavy punch—Geveno dodged. Then came the elbow. A dagger formed mid-movement—but Geveno disarmed him with a flick of his burning blade.
Arrows spiraled through the chaos. Lyle's shots weren't wild—they were surgical. Each golden bolt sang with purpose, slicing through potential futures, cutting off paths before they could form.
To the untrained eye, it looked like art.
Geveno dodged them with frightening precision.
Gevena closed in, only to be met by Rowan. He was being overwhelmed—but Rowan was no brawler. He was a hunter. And hunters leave traps. With every step, he etched skull-shaped sigils across the field, setting snares in silence.
Behind them, Aria remained still. Healing pulses radiated from her body—passive, warm, constant. Her mere presence kept them going.
Markus rushed forward to guard Lyle. Geveno met him, their blades clashing. Markus was outmatched instantly—but he wasn't alone. Finn flipped into the fray, blade flashing with acrobatics. His strike forced Geveno back just long enough for Markus to recover.
They fought in tandem—one defending, one striking.
But Geveno was relentless. With twin flame-daggers and unmatched speed, he carved through their guard, every move pristine. Still, they kept coming.
Lyle helped—each arrow landing at the perfect angle to restrict movement, to slow the dance. A shot to the leg here. A forced dodge there. Slowly, the noose tightened.
Rowan circled back. He began teleporting mid-fight, but Gevena's reflexes countered each blink. Until Rowan blinked to Ramsey, still recovering.
He placed a skull sigil on him.
And teleported him.
Ramsey reappeared on a marked point—confused, but right behind Gevena.
Rowan followed. Gevena dodged sideways—Rowan blinked again. Ramsey struck. Gevena blocked.
Rowan's axe was caught—but he fired it point-blank. Gevena ducked, but Rowan blinked again—retrieving the axe mid-air, then teleporting Ramsey behind her.
Ramsey struck true. Gevena skidded back, wounded—just barely.
Then came the twin bows.
Gevena and Geveno, side by side, summoned bows of flame and fired. Their arrows detonated on impact—massive shockwaves knocked the entire team back.
Lyle and Aria were now exposed.
The twins advanced. Two ends of the same burning blade.
Every movement was in sync—coordinated destruction, fire laced with precision and cruelty. They weren't after the team anymore.
They were after Lyle.
Why? Perhaps because he was the Archon of Man. Perhaps because they feared what he could see.
They closed in.
Lyle could feel it. Their fire wasn't fading—it burned brighter. It refused to die. He fired back, dodged, recalculated.
But it wasn't enough.
A flaming dagger flew, then detonated. It blew him back. Aria ran to help—but Gevena curved another dagger toward her and triggered it mid-air. It exploded. Aria was thrown aside. She wasn't built for frontline combat—she was their healer.
Then came the moment.
Lyle turned to fire again—too slow.
Geveno was already there.
The blade didn't take his head.
It took his hand.
And the next strike was already coming.