To the Lattices.
To another battlefield.
36
Cleaving the Heart
It was just past Curfew when an explosion ripped the Han district apart.
The Shields howled.
The Daesa Major roared.
The Han wailed in agony as its streets, market stalls, and homes burned in a roaring blaze.
Kailorien stood amidst the chaos and destruction, his cracked wards still hissing, supporting one of his Reskala who hadn’t covered his ears quickly enough. Blood flowed down the man’s jaw. His mouth was open on a scream, but the choker on his neck was dim, not allowing a single sound to escape his lips.
Thrassus, the Resh’Agar’s Second, took the man by the other arm and signed for support from their battalion. Three other warriors came to take him away, their rune-lit faces ashen, dazed. They looked upwards where towering Crafter homes had once defined the lattice line, seeing only rubble, torn metal, and sundered crystal.
Kailorien gripped the hilt of his sword, raising his other hand and casting fresh wards around his men. The scale of destruction wasn’t something a mortal mind could comprehend, but in nearly two millennia, he’d seen worse cataclysms.
While his men stood shocked, his eyes sought to calculate the scope of damage.
Wounded — some, enough to guide to shelter.
Dead — most had been evaporated in the blast.
Rogue magic — everywhere. His Manasight blurred his vision with the amount of scorched mana and shattered leylines surrounding them.
He lifted his arm. Tested a portal summons. When the magic sputtered, he swore under his breath.
His men looked up at him. Thrassus signed, requesting orders. Kailorien paused, deciding what to do next.
It was Shardfall. The middle of the week. Most temples in the Han did not receive fresh supplies until Moonfell, but they were the most warded places in the city.
How fitting.
It was said that decisions made on Shardfall often led to cleaving. It was a day reserved for Council sessions of utmost import. A day when fate lurked in every word and action.
Destiny.
Perhaps that was why the Solutus chose this day to cleave Krystopolis in twain. For years, they’d bombed the city. Alchemical concoctions, runestones clumsily bound in torn linens and bags of mage’s sand. There were deaths. Damages. Butthis…
Just moments ago, the district’s heart was bustling with trade, the streets filled to the brim with peddling Crafters, excited merchants, and apprentices running errands with their arms full and their faces bright with focus.
Kailorien had been inspecting this quarter after a report of suspected Solutus activity. Something in his gut had warned him to cast extra wards, to conjure a web over himself and Thrassus as they walked the alleys. If he hadn’t followed thatinstinct—
‘Your Quintessence, what is the protocol for this level of assault?’Thrassus, his Second, signed beside him, his battleaxe drawn and his runes blazing gold across his face and neck.
His short cropped black hair was streaked with dust, and his golden eyes glowed with the power of his magic. His signing was clumsy with the weapon in his hands, but Kailorien made out the words.
“They will come,” Kailorien said, drawing his own blade. “Hold. Tell the men to take formation. Visibility is low. Tell those with Serös runes to stand one man behind, guiding the others. Ascendant rank webs over the survivors. I want two rows of shields with me and three to gather those who live and get them to the nearest temple.”
Thrassus made the sign for obedience, bringing his hands together and thumping his fists to his chest.‘The Void will see it done.’
His Second jumped to follow his Commander’s orders, signing to his Reskala. He gathered ten men first. Five per row. They brandished tall white shields made of Rödom crystal, a material that was resistant to magic. A recent improvement to the Reskala’s armor.
Auryn’s idea.
