The ridge was a treacherous funnel of rock and shadow, carved by time and the relentless will of wind and water. It was barely wide enough for the rear guard to march two abreast, and every step seemed to echo, bouncing off the jagged walls as if mocking their progress. The air was thin here, sharp with the scent of cold stone and something faintly metallic—a hint of blood that hadn't been spilled yet.
Seeker hated it.
The cliffs pressed in on either side, steep and unyielding, their sharp edges slicing into the sky. Every hollow in the rock, every narrow ledge above, felt like a threat waiting to unfold. The stone seemed to breathe, a low and oppressive weight that whispered of ambushes and death. It wasn't just the confinement or the potential for slaughter—it was the way the ridge amplified every sound. A boot scuffing against loose gravel. The faint rustle of fabric. The soft clink of armor shifting. Each noise felt magnified, carried too far, giving away their position to any unseen eyes above.
The soldiers around him marched in uneasy silence, their muttered conversations fading the further they went. Their breaths hung in the air, pale clouds that dissipated almost as quickly as they formed. The cold bit at their faces and seeped through the cracks in their armor. Even the well-trained veterans seemed unsettled, their eyes darting to the cliffs as if expecting an attack at any moment.
The rearguard of seven thousand was stretched perilously thin, a ribbon of iron and leather trailing behind the main army. Seeker's unit, one of many in the long line, marched near the back. He didn't mind the positioning—he'd learned long ago that the rear was often the most dangerous place. You were the first to know when the enemy came from behind, and the last to receive reinforcements. It suited him. He preferred to see the danger coming.
His unit, however, didn't seem to share his grim acceptance. Marlen, ever the unhelpful optimist, muttered complaints about the mud and the cold. Liora trudged quietly, her oversized armor clinking awkwardly as she struggled to keep pace. Harken, walking just ahead, had the steady gait of someone who had survived too many marches to care about discomfort. Gale, to Seeker's left, walked with his head down but his sharp eyes constantly scanning the cliffs above. Even his usual sardonic comments had dried up, leaving an uncomfortable void where his cynicism should have been.
Seeker's hand hovered near the hilt of his sword. The weight of it felt like an anchor, a reassurance against the unease curling in his chest. He wasn't sure if the tension in the air was real or imagined, but he trusted his instincts. This place was wrong.
"Stay sharp," Seeker muttered, his voice low. He wasn't even sure who he was talking to—his unit, himself, or perhaps the rocks that seemed to breathe down their necks.
Harken turned slightly, catching his eye. "You feel it too?"
Seeker gave a curt nod. He didn't need to explain. Harken had been in enough battles to recognize the kind of silence that came before the storm. The veteran's grip tightened on his shield, his gaze shifting back to the cliffs.
"Too quiet," Gale said, breaking his own silence. His voice was barely audible, like he didn't want the rocks to overhear. "No birds. No wind. Just us."
"Maybe they're smarter than us," Marlen offered, his attempt at humor falling flat. "Staying out of this cursed place."
Harken grunted. "Shut it, noble. You'll hear them before you see them. Always do."
Seeker didn't respond. His eyes flicked to the cliffs again, searching for movement, for shadows that didn't belong. Every instinct he had was screaming, warning him that they were being watched. The problem was, he couldn't see who—or what—was doing the watching. His stomach churned, a sick mixture of anticipation and dread. He had no memories of war to draw on, no experience to guide him in these moments. All he had were instincts honed by the arena and the fragments of advice from his veterans.
The line of soldiers stretched ahead and behind, their forms blending into the jagged landscape like a somber, mismatched parade. He could hear the faint clinking of armor, the occasional cough or muttered curse, but it wasn't enough to drown out the silence of the ridge. The quiet here was alive, pressing down on them like a weight. Seeker had learned to listen to silences like this. They often meant something was about to break.
And then it did.
The first scream shattered the quiet like a glass dropped on stone, sharp and jarring. It echoed off the cliffs, bouncing back in distorted fragments that made it impossible to tell where it had come from.
Seeker's sword was in his hand before he even realized he'd drawn it. His heart thundered in his chest, but his mind was calm, sharp. "Shields up!" he barked, his voice cutting through the rising panic.
The world erupted into chaos.
Arrows rained down from the cliffs, black as shadow and silent as death. They cut through the cold air with an eerie whistle, a sound that seemed to slice apart the stillness. The first struck a soldier a few paces ahead of Seeker, piercing his throat with a sickening thunk. The man crumpled, his blood spraying in a vivid arc that stained the gray stone red. A second arrow slammed into a shield nearby, splintering wood with a sharp crack and sending its bearer staggering backward.
"Shields up!" Harken roared, his voice cutting through the rising panic like a whip. He raised his own shield, its scarred surface turning him into a moving wall of iron. Without hesitation, he grabbed Sarra by the arm and shoved her behind him, his massive frame taking the brunt of the incoming volley.
Seeker's heart pounded as his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. The air around him felt charged, heavy with fear and adrenaline. Every instinct screamed at him to act, but the ambush was a storm, sudden and overwhelming. He barely registered the cacophony of screams and clashing steel as the Dark Elves descended from the cliffs.
They poured out of the shadows like a living tide, their movements impossibly fluid. They were a vision of nightmare elegance—crimson eyes burning with cold fury, their dark armor absorbing what little light filtered through the ridgeline. Blades curved like fangs gleamed in their hands, already slick with blood as they cut through the rear guard.
Seeker turned just in time to meet the first attacker. The Dark Elf moved with terrifying grace, their blade flashing toward his throat in a silver arc. He parried on instinct, the clash of steel vibrating up his arms and into his bones. The Elf hissed, a sharp, guttural sound that carried an edge of contempt. Their second blade was already coming toward his side.
Seeker twisted, his body moving before his mind had time to catch up. He drove his boot into the Elf's knee with all the force he could muster. The joint crumpled with a sickening crack, and the Elf dropped, snarling in pain. Seeker's sword followed, the blade slicing cleanly across their throat. Blood spilled in a hot, dark rush, and the Elf fell, their lifeless body collapsing to the stone.
There was no time to think. No time to breathe. The air around him filled with screams—the guttural cries of the Dark Elves mingling with the panicked shouts of soldiers. Metal clashed against metal in sharp, brutal bursts. Bodies fell around him, some with sickening thuds, others with wet, meaty slaps as they hit the blood-slick ground.
A soldier to Seeker's left was run through by a dark blade, his dying scream cutting off as the Elf twisted the weapon free. To his right, Gale was a blur of motion, his twin daggers flashing as he drove one into an Elf's stomach and slashed another's throat in the same breath. Harken stood like a bastion, his shield raised high as he bellowed orders, his axe cleaving through armor and flesh alike.
Sarra's spear flashed, the weapon's long reach keeping her enemies at bay. She lunged forward, catching an advancing Elf in the chest and driving them back with sheer force. Nearby, Liora fought to hold her ground, her smaller frame barely managing to parry a flurry of strikes from her opponent. Her breathing was ragged, her movements desperate but improving with each passing moment.
"Fall back!" someone shouted, though the voice was drowned by the cacophony of battle.
The stone beneath Seeker's feet was slick with blood, turning the narrow ravine into a charnel house. The smell was overwhelming—iron and sweat, mixed with the acrid stench of burned flesh where magic had seared the ground. He stumbled over a fallen soldier, his boot catching on the man's arm. The brief distraction cost him.
Another Dark Elf was on him in an instant, their blade aimed for his neck. Seeker barely managed to raise his sword in time, the clash of steel ringing in his ears. The force of the blow sent him stumbling, his back slamming into the ravine wall. The Elf pressed forward, their crimson eyes gleaming with predatory focus.
Seeker gritted his teeth, his arms straining under the weight of the Elf's attack. He twisted his wrist, angling his blade to deflect the strike, then lashed out with his free hand. His fist caught the Elf across the jaw, the impact jarring enough to make them falter. He didn't hesitate. Seeker surged forward, driving his sword through their chest. The Elf gasped, their breath hitching as the light faded from their eyes.
The battle around him was a blur of motion and sound, each moment bleeding into the next. Seeker could hear the shouts of his unit, the clash of steel, the thrum of magic in the air.
They emerged from the cliffs like shadows given form, their presence undeniable even amid the chaos of battle. Dark Elven Disciples. The very air around them seemed to ripple with power, a subtle distortion that made the light bend and flicker unnaturally. Their crimson eyes burned brighter than the others, a searing glow that cut through the haze of blood and death. Seeker felt it the moment he saw them—a chill that ran deeper than fear, a primal sense of wrongness that settled into his bones.
The first Disciple carried a staff, its dark wood twisted and gnarled as if it had been ripped from the roots of some ancient, cursed tree. Veins of faint blue light pulsed along its length, each beat sending a faint hum through the air. Around the Elf, water moved like a living thing, coiling and snapping like a serpent eager to strike. With a flick of their wrist, the water lashed forward, cutting through armor and flesh with impossible precision. Soldiers screamed as the liquid tendrils found them, slicing through exposed necks, snapping ribs, and leaving grotesque wounds in their wake.
Then came the steam. It hissed up from the ground in violent bursts, clouds of scalding vapor rolling outward like the breath of some vengeful god. Seeker watched in horror as the nearest soldiers cried out, their flesh boiling and blistering in an instant. One man clawed at his face, his screams high-pitched and frantic, before collapsing into a lifeless heap.
The second Disciple carried no weapon, only the weight of their presence and the raw, unrelenting power of the earth itself. Their bare hands moved with deliberate precision, each gesture sending waves of destruction through the ground. The earth cracked and buckled beneath their feet, jagged shards of stone exploding upward in a deadly storm. Rocks as sharp as daggers tore through the rear guard, impaling soldiers mid-step. Seeker saw one man lifted clean off the ground, his chest pierced by a spike of stone. His body hung there for a moment, grotesquely still, before slumping forward as the stone receded.
Seeker's stomach twisted as the carnage unfolded. A young soldier stumbled near the front line, his leg caught in one of the jagged spikes. The man clawed at the ground, his cries drowned out by the chaos around him. Before Seeker could react, a tendril of water snaked through the air, coiling around the soldier's throat. The Disciple with the staff barely glanced at their victim as they tightened their grip, dragging him forward like a marionette.
The second Disciple raised their hand, and with a casual flick of their fingers, a volley of stone shards erupted from the ground. They struck the soldier mid-air, impaling him in half a dozen places. The man's body twisted unnaturally, his limbs flailing once before falling limp. The water released him, letting his mangled form crumple to the blood-soaked earth.
Seeker's heart thundered in his chest. The Disciples moved with the precision of predators, their magic a seamless extension of their will. They didn't fight like soldiers—they fought like forces of nature, dismantling their enemies with an unhurried cruelty that spoke of absolute confidence in their power.
"We're going to die here," Marlen muttered from somewhere behind Seeker, his voice trembling. The unlanded noble had his sword raised, but his hands shook, the blade wobbling uselessly in his grip.
"Not if we fight smart," Harken growled, stepping forward to stand beside Seeker. The veteran's shield was already battered, but he held it high, his axe glinting with fresh blood. "Seeker, we need to move—now. If we stay pinned here, they'll tear us apart."
Seeker nodded, his throat too tight for words. His mind raced, trying to piece together a plan, a strategy, anything that could keep his unit alive. The air felt heavy around him, thick with the stench of blood and the acrid tang of steam. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to escape the suffocating chaos of the ridge. But running wouldn't save them—not from this.
He looked to Liora, who stood trembling but held her spear steady. To Gale, whose daggers were slick with blood but whose sharp eyes hadn't lost their focus. To Sarra, who had planted herself beside Harken, her spear raised with grim determination. They were counting on him. Not just to lead them, but to keep them alive.
The earth rumbled again, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through Seeker's very core. Another jagged spike of stone erupted nearby, narrowly missing a cluster of soldiers. The first Disciple laughed, a cold, melodic sound that carried over the din of battle. They raised their staff, and the tendrils of water began to converge, coiling together into a single, massive wave that loomed over the battlefield like a predator preparing to strike.
Seeker's grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles turned white. He wasn't sure what scared him more—the sheer power of the Disciples, or the growing hum deep within himself, a pulse of energy that felt wild and untamed. It was the same force he had felt in the arena, the same power that had saved him before. But this time, it didn't feel distant or dormant. It felt close, too close, like a storm building beneath his skin.
It scared him. But it also whispered of possibility.
"Hold the line!" Seeker shouted, his voice cracking but forceful. His sword rose, the blade trembling slightly as he pointed it toward the advancing Disciples. "We take them down, or we die here. There's no other way."
The hum inside him grew louder, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. His vision blurred for a moment, the chaos of the battlefield fading into a strange, almost serene clarity. He didn't know what was about to happen, but for the first time, he didn't fight the storm. He let it in.
"Seeker!" Harken's voice was raw, desperate. His shield splintered under the impact of a jagged shard of stone, fragments flying as the veteran staggered back. "Do something!"
Something broke inside Seeker, not like a crack but like a dam giving way. The hum of power that had teased him, taunted him, suddenly surged forward. It roared through him, consuming everything—fear, hesitation, even thought. It wasn't a question anymore. It was a demand, a call to something deep and undeniable.
The world shifted.
The first thing he noticed was the silence. Not the absence of sound, but a clarity that separated the chaos of battle from his mind. Every sound stretched and slowed—the whistle of arrows, the cries of men, the dull thud of a body hitting the blood-soaked ground. It was as though the air itself held its breath.
Time warped, each second elongated into an eternity. He saw everything. The Disciple with the staff, their fingers weaving intricate patterns of water and steam, the glow of magic coiling around them like a serpent. The second Disciple, summoning a wall of stone with a lazy flick of their wrist, their confidence radiating like heat. The subtle ripple in the air around them betrayed their power, their mastery. They were unstoppable forces, and yet, Seeker felt no fear. Only the hum, now a storm, louder and fiercer than ever.
And then he saw something else. A place not outside of him, but within.
It was as if he had blinked and found himself somewhere entirely different. The battlefield fell away, replaced by an endless expanse of water stretching beyond the horizon. The surface shimmered, dark and glassy, reflecting a sky fractured with swirling storms and streaks of lightning. The waves moved, not with chaos, but with a rhythm—steady, deliberate, alive.
His breath caught. This was the place he had felt glimpses of before, the ocean that had always been just out of reach. But now it was here, vast and undeniable. It wasn't just water. It was power, raw and boundless, flowing in currents that he could almost touch.
At the center of the ocean stood a figure—himself, but not. It was taller, stronger, cloaked in a faint glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. The figure turned, its dark eyes meeting his, and for a moment, everything clicked. The emptiness he had carried, the fragments of memory, the lingering sense of being incomplete—it all came crashing together like the tide.
The figure didn't speak, but its meaning was clear: This is yours. Take it.
Seeker stepped forward, his bare feet touching the surface of the water. It rippled under him, the power within surging upward, through him. He gasped as it filled him, a torrent of energy that burned and electrified and healed all at once. His body felt impossibly strong, his mind sharper than it had ever been. The storm within him found its place, not chaotic but controlled, a force waiting to be unleashed.
He blinked, and the battlefield snapped back into focus. The clarity remained. He felt the ground beneath his feet, the weight of his sword, the rhythm of his own heartbeat, steady and unshaken. But more than that, he felt the flow of mana coursing through him, weaving itself into every fiber of his being. It wasn't just energy—it was life, vibrant and infinite.
The Disciple with the staff turned toward him, their crimson eyes narrowing. They raised their weapon, magic swirling around them in a vortex of water and steam. Seeker saw the currents, felt the way the mana twisted and pulled. He didn't just see the spell—they were connected, part of the same vast river. For a fleeting moment, he understood the Disciple's power, the way they bent the water to their will.
His body moved before he thought. His sword came up, deflecting a shard of rock that would have skewered Taren. The blade hummed in his hand, arcs of electricity crackling along its surface. Time slowed again, the battlefield crystallizing into a series of moments: the Disciple's staff rising, their spell coiling in the air; Harken shouting, his axe swinging toward another foe; Liora, her spear glinting as she fought desperately to hold the line.
Seeker's vision narrowed on the staff-wielding Disciple. The spark within him flared, and he reached for it, letting it grow into a roaring flame. The air around him crackled with energy, the faint smell of ozone cutting through the stench of blood and sweat. His sword felt alive in his hands, an extension of the power coursing through him.
With a roar, he thrust his blade forward.
The bolt of lightning leapt from the steel, a blinding arc of white-hot energy that struck the Disciple square in the chest. They convulsed, their staff slipping from their grasp as the electricity coursed through them. Steam hissed from their robes as their body crumpled to the ground, smoke rising in faint tendrils.
But there was no time to savor the victory. The second Disciple roared, their hands slamming into the ground. The earth quaked, jagged spikes of stone tearing upward in a deadly cascade. Seeker leapt to the side, his movements impossibly quick, the storm within him lending him speed and reflexes that defied explanation.
He landed hard, rolling to his feet just as the Disciple turned their fury on him. Their hand shot out, and a wall of stone erupted between them. Seeker didn't hesitate. He swung his sword with all the force he could muster, the blade cutting through the air like a lightning rod. The energy within him surged outward, and the wall shattered into fragments.
The Disciple staggered, their expression faltering for the first time. Seeker saw the hesitation, the momentary flicker of doubt. He pressed forward, his movements a blur as he closed the distance between them. The crackling energy around him grew wilder, brighter, until it felt like the very air was alive with electricity.
With a final, guttural shout, he drove his blade into the ground. The bolt of lightning that erupted wasn't aimed at the Disciple but at the ridge above. The energy slammed into the boulders, splitting them apart with a deafening crack. The ground trembled as the rocks gave way, tumbling down in a cascade of destruction.
The Disciple's scream was swallowed by the chaos as the landslide consumed them, their form disappearing beneath the avalanche. The Dark Elves scattered, their formation broken as the ridge sealed itself in a wall of stone and rubble.
Seeker staggered, his vision swimming as the storm within him began to ebb. The battlefield was quiet now, the echoes of the landslide fading into the distance. He fell to one knee, his breath ragged, his body trembling with the aftershock of the power he had unleashed.
For the first time, he felt whole.
The world around Seeker dissolved into a blur as the storm within him subsided. The lightning, the trembling earth, the screams of dying Elves—all of it became distant, muffled, as though he were hearing it through layers of water. His knees buckled, his sword slipping from his grasp to clatter against the stone. Pain lanced through him, sharp and burning, as though his veins were filled with molten iron instead of blood. He staggered back, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint of light, and then darkness took him.
The first sensation was pain. Blinding, all-consuming pain that clawed at Seeker's consciousness and dragged him back into the waking world. His chest felt tight, his limbs like lead. Every breath was a battle, his lungs burning as if the air itself had turned against him. He opened his eyes to the dim glow of a campfire, the flickering light casting dancing shadows across the canvas of a tent and the faces of his sleeping unit.
The memory of the battle crashed over him like a wave. The surge of power, the crackling lightning, the shattering rocks—it all felt like a dream. But his body told him otherwise. The dull throb in his arms, the searing pain in his chest, and the faint taste of copper in his mouth were reminders that it had been all too real.
He shifted, stifling a groan as the movement sent fresh pain lancing through his body. His unit lay scattered around the campfire, their forms bundled in mismatched cloaks and armor, their faces etched with exhaustion. Harken snored softly, his massive frame sprawled beside his shattered shield. Liora clutched her spear even in sleep, her small hands gripping it like a lifeline. The sight should have been comforting, but Seeker couldn't shake the unease coiling in his gut.
His body protested as he rose, the cold air biting into his sweat-soaked skin. The sharp pangs in his chest worsened, as if his very bones were burning. He stumbled to the edge of the camp, desperate for relief. The shadows beyond the firelight loomed large, and the muffled sounds of the soldiers in other camps carried on the wind—a cough here, a quiet murmur there. Life went on, even after carnage.
He braced himself against a tree, his breath ragged as he stared into the dark. He tried to focus, to ground himself in the tangible—the cold bark beneath his palm, the faint rustle of the wind through the trees. Yet, even as he steadied himself, a new sensation crept into his awareness. That same prickle of being watched, but this time it was closer, more intimate, like a breath on the back of his neck.
He froze. Slowly, he turned his head. Sitting on his shoulder was a tiny figure, no larger than his hand. She glowed faintly, her form surrounded by a soft, ethereal light that illuminated her delicate features. Her skin shimmered with a pearly hue, and her hair cascaded in strands of silver that seemed to catch and hold the starlight. Her wings—four of them—were translucent and veined like a dragonfly's, pulsing faintly with a rhythm that matched her glowing aura.
"Good, you're awake," she said, her voice high but smooth, carrying an odd resonance that felt both musical and commanding. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, looking at him with something between amusement and exasperation. "You humans are so dramatic with your mana overloads."
Seeker blinked. Then blinked again. His body remained frozen, the dull pain momentarily forgotten as his mind scrambled to make sense of the impossible. "I... you're not real," he muttered. "Just a trick of my mind."
The fairy scoffed, her tiny wings fluttering indignantly. "Oh, how original. Ignore the glowing, sentient being perched on your shoulder. That will surely make me disappear."
He reached up with shaking fingers, brushing at his shoulder as if to swat her away. To his horror, his fingers passed through her, sending a ripple of light through her form. She didn't vanish but instead hovered up and away, her wings buzzing faintly as she regarded him with a raised brow.
"You really think you can get rid of me that easily?" she said, her tone dry. "Listen, Seeker, you're teetering on the edge of burning out every mana channel you have. If you don't rest properly, you'll make it worse."
Seeker stumbled back against the tree, shaking his head. "I'm losing my mind. That's all this is."
"Sure, let's go with that," the fairy replied, her tiny form darting closer to meet his gaze. Her eyes were sharp, a pale blue that seemed to pierce through him. "But if this is madness, it's very knowledgeable madness. You've overdrawn your mana, genius. You're lucky you didn't cook your insides with that little lightning show."
The words struck something deep in him. Mana overload. The burning, the tightness in his chest, the way every movement felt like dragging his body through fire—it all made a horrible kind of sense. He opened his mouth to speak, but the fairy raised a hand.
"Save the questions. You don't even know the basics, do you?" she said, her voice softening. "Here's the short version: your pathways are damaged. The mana you forced through them was too much for your stage. Think of it like trying to flood a narrow creek with a river's worth of water. It did what you needed, but now you're paying for it."
He stared at her, his mind a tangle of disbelief and grudging acceptance. "And you're here... why? To lecture me?"
"Partly," she said with a smirk. "And partly because I have a vested interest in seeing you not die. Now, go back to your camp. You need rest, and you need to avoid doing something stupid like that again."
Seeker hesitated, his gaze flicking to the campfire in the distance. The pain was creeping back, a dull, insistent ache that sapped what little strength he had left. He pushed off the tree and stumbled toward the light, the fairy flitting alongside him.
"Its not real," he muttered again, more to himself than her. "This isn't happening."
"Whatever helps you sleep," she replied lightly. "But for the record, I am very real. You'll see soon enough."
Seeker collapsed onto his bedroll, his body too heavy to carry any longer. The fairy hovered above him, her expression unreadable as she watched him close his eyes. Sleep came quickly, pulling him into its depths.
And then came the memory.
The void was vast and silent, stretching endlessly in every direction. Seeker floated within it, weightless, his thoughts dulled by the emptiness. For a moment, he felt the peace of nothingness, the kind that came with forgetting pain, fear, and loss. But the stillness didn't last. Slowly, the void shifted, and threads of light began weaving themselves into shapes, pulling him into something he hadn't felt in what seemed like lifetimes.
A memory. But not the farm, not the girl's laughter. This was older, deeper, and sharper in its clarity.
He stood on the bridge of a vast ship, the air around him humming faintly with energy. It wasn't magic—no, this was something colder, more precise. The walls were sleek and dark, punctuated by the faint glow of consoles that pulsed like living veins. Seeker—or the man he was before—wore a fitted uniform, its fabric stiff with authority. The badge on his chest bore an insignia he couldn't fully place, though it stirred a sense of duty deep within him.
The ship's viewscreen dominated the room, a window to the endless void of stars beyond. But it wasn't the stars that held his attention. It was the planet—a massive, swirling sphere of green, blue, and gold. It loomed impossibly large, vibrant with life and untouched by the scars of humanity's mistakes.
Aegis-7.
The name resonated within him like a whispered prayer. This was to be their new home, their salvation after the fall of Earth and its colonies. Its forests promised timber for homes, its rivers offered fresh water, and its skies gleamed with the hope of a future untainted by war or ruin.
"She's beautiful," a voice beside him said, soft yet steady.
He turned to see Zara Vale standing at his side. Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose braid, strands escaping to frame her sharp features. She wasn't wearing her usual mask of duty; instead, her expression was unguarded, her gaze filled with something he hadn't seen in a long time—hope.
"She is," Seeker replied, his voice quiet. His fingers rested lightly on the console before him, as if touching the cold surface could anchor him in this moment. "It feels like... a second chance."
Zara tilted her head, her eyes not leaving the planet. "Do you think it'll hold, Commander? Everything we're carrying—all of us?"
He didn't answer right away. The weight of their cargo wasn't just physical—it was the collective burden of humanity's failures and dreams, the fragile balance of survival and ambition. His eyes traced the curve of the planet, the clouds swirling like brushstrokes on a canvas. It looked alive. A world untouched by humanity's mistakes, yet waiting to embrace them if they tread carefully.
"It has to," he said finally, his tone firmer than he felt. "We can't afford to fail. Not again."
She nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. "The others need to hear that. They need to see this," she added, gesturing to the planet with a small, almost reverent motion. "It's hard to believe in hope when all you've known is ashes."
The memory shifted slightly, like a lens coming into focus. He remembered the bridge falling quiet as the announcement was made.
"Approach trajectory aligned. Atmospheric entry in T-minus four hours."
A wave of tension rippled through the room, subtle but palpable. This was the moment they had been working toward for years, the culmination of sacrifices and countless sleepless nights. Seeker felt it, too—a tightening in his chest, an ache that wasn't fear but something heavier.
He glanced at Zara, who was already moving to relay orders. Her voice carried authority, sharp and precise, as she issued instructions to the bridge crew. The sound of her voice steadied him, grounding him in the moment.
But his gaze drifted back to the planet. Something in him stirred—a feeling he couldn't place. A sensation that wasn't quite unease but wasn't comfort, either. It was as if the planet were watching them as much as they were watching it.
The memory blurred, the bridge melting away into the hum of the ship. Seeker felt the pull of the memory receding, leaving behind only fragments—Zara's voice, the planet's vibrant beauty, the faint flicker of hope that had once burned within him.
He gasped, his chest heaving as he jolted awake in the camp. The fire's glow cast flickering shadows on the sleeping forms of his unit, their breaths steady in the still night air. Pain shot through him, sharp and unforgiving, and he clutched his chest, his fingers trembling.
His mana pathways burned, raw and overtaxed from the battle. Every movement sent sharp, lancing pain through his body, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his mind. The memory lingered, vivid and disorienting, its edges fraying like a half-remembered dream.
"Aegis-7," he whispered, the name foreign yet familiar, heavy with meaning.
Above, the stars glittered faintly in the night sky, a reminder of the vastness he had once called home. But they offered no comfort, only the weight of everything he had lost.
The fairy was gone. Only the faintest shimmer of light on his shoulder remained, like the echo of her presence.
"Just a dream," he whispered to himself, though he wasn't sure he believed it.