The flight back to Astradan was quiet. Neither Aldric nor Lysara had the strength to talk, their bodies aching from battle, their minds still lingering on the graves they had left behind. The Zerloc was dead. The Tear was closed. The corruption in the hunting grounds had been purged.
The battle was over, and the price for their divine artifacts had been paid in full.
Dralore landed smoothly upon the upper terraces of the city, his wings folding as he lowered his head in what Aldric could only assume was approval. Syn touched down beside him, her silver-tinged feathers gleaming under the mountain sun. The Dragles had accepted them. A partnership forged in blood and trial.
Sight-Rider was there to greet them.
She studied them both carefully, her expression neutral, but Aldric could see it—the faint flicker of something behind her eyes. They had proven themselves, but at what cost?
"You've done what was needed," she said, gesturing for them to follow. "Now rest. The fight will find you again soon enough."
Neither of them argued.
They were led deeper into Astradan, away from the high terraces and into the lower city where the heart of the Caelite operations lay hidden. The air grew cooler, the architecture more utilitarian—this wasn't the pristine domain of scholars and seers. This was a war room.
They arrived at a chamber built into the mountain itself. At its center lay a massive stone map of Allevue, meticulously etched with symbols, markers, and shifting carved notations. Every inch of the continent was charted, with fresh engravings detailing not just geography, but movements.
Aldric's breath slowed as he took it in.
The Karnaxian army was marked in bold, their routes carefully tracked. Open Tears in the Veil were noted with urgency, their presence spreading across the land like a growing sickness. Known Holy Trees were documented—some still standing, others crossed out, their divine essence lost. Small sigils marked the current locations of support, scattered remnants of forces that had not yet bent the knee to Karnax.
"This is…" Lysara trailed off, fingers brushing against the smooth engravings.
Sight-Rider stepped beside them, her hands folded behind her back. "This information comes from our Dragles scout group, the Seers, and… other sources."
Aldric didn't miss the implication. Not all of this had been gathered through clean means. There were underground connections, spies, people moving through enemy lines to keep this intelligence alive.
"We have been tracking the fall of the world in silence," Sight-Rider continued. "And trying to mount a resistance."
Aldric's gut twisted.
He clenched his fists, stepping away from the table, his breath sharp. "A resistance," he repeated, his voice colder than he intended. "Now?"
Sight-Rider met his gaze, unreadable. "Yes."
Aldric let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "A resistance might have been helpful before the Coalition fell. Before the last of the great cities were taken. Before the world turned to Karnax because there was no one left to fight for it." He exhaled sharply. "But now? It seems a little late."
The silence in the room was heavy.
Sight-Rider did not waver. "Late does not mean hopeless."
Aldric wasn't sure he believed that.
Aldric stepped forward, his fingers tightening around the edge of the stone table. His breath was ragged, his body still aching from battle, but it wasn't pain that made his hands shake. It was anger.
"Why now?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the chamber like a drawn blade. "Why not earlier? Why wait until it's nearly hopeless?"
Sight-Rider remained still, her silvered gaze unreadable.
Aldric didn't let her answer. Not yet.
"Sir Danton sent out requests for aid when Karnax first marched," he continued, his voice rising. "To the Order. To the city-states. To the faithful. To anyone who would listen." He took a measured breath, but it did nothing to slow the fury boiling in his chest. "And do you know what we got in return?"
He slammed his fist against the stone. Holy power flared up, flickering along his arms in sharp, uncontrolled bursts.
"Nothing."
Lysara didn't move, but she was watching him carefully.
"No reply. No reinforcements. No support. And because of that, the Coalition fell, our forces were slaughtered, and now you want to tell me there's a resistance forming?" His voice cracked, but he didn't stop. "My family lived in Millbrook. Do you know if they survived?" His breath shuddered. "Because I don't."
Silence hung between them, thick and suffocating.
Then Sight-Rider spoke.
Her voice was not defensive, nor was it apologetic. It was measured, each word carefully chosen.
"Because we were not ready."
Aldric's rage burned hotter. "Not ready?"
Sight-Rider's gaze didn't waver. "You think we sat idle while the world burned? That we did nothing while Karnax's forces swallowed the land?" She stepped closer, her expression harder now. "We are not an army, Aldric. The Lunari do not command battalions. The Solari do not march onto battlefields. We are not a kingdom. We are a people scattered to the winds, living atop mountains, in sanctuaries hidden from time. We did not wait—we survived."
She let the words settle before continuing.
"You ask why now. Why not when Sir Danton called for aid? I will tell you. Because when Karnax's forces first marched, we had no means to fight back. We had no knowledge of their strategies, no allies to rally, no time to gather our own scattered numbers. If we had acted then, if we had exposed ourselves before we understood what we were facing, we would have been crushed. Not as an army, but as a whisper lost to the storm."
Aldric's jaw tightened, but he listened.
She gestured toward the map. "What you see here? These markings, these scouts, this network of intelligence? This was not something that could be made in a day, or a month, or even a year. This took time. We had to learn how to move through occupied land without being seen. We had to find the cracks in Karnax's hold. We had to gather what remained of those who could still fight without drawing attention. We had to let the world believe we were broken, scattered—because if we had revealed ourselves too soon, there would be nothing left of us to resist now."
Aldric's breathing was still heavy, his fists still clenched, but he was listening.
Sight-Rider exhaled, her voice softer now.
"I will not tell you this was the right decision. I will not tell you that it did not cost lives, that it did not lead to ruin. But I will tell you this—we are here now. And now, we can fight."
Aldric stared at the map, at the scars of a war that had already claimed so much. His chest still ached, his pulse still hammered in his ears, but his rage no longer burned out of control.
Aldric exhaled slowly, the fire in his chest no longer raging but far from extinguished. His hands remained at his sides, but his knuckles were still pale from the tension wound into them. He understood Sight-Rider's reasoning, understood the necessity of survival. But he didn't accept it.
"I see," he said finally, his voice even. "And I thank you for your help. For the use of the forge, for the artifacts, for the shelter while we healed. But we're done here."
Sight-Rider blinked, her silver eyes narrowing slightly. "Aldric—"
"No," he cut her off. "You can fight your war your way. I won't be part of it. I won't work for cowards who hid while my people died."
Lysara's expression remained unreadable beside him, but she didn't argue.
Sight-Rider's lips pressed together. "You are angry. That's understandable, but—"
Aldric shook his head. "You don't need to justify it to me again. I don't care."
He turned sharply, already stepping away from the war table, already moving toward the door. Lysara followed without a word.
But before they could leave, two guards stepped forward, blocking the exit.
Aldric's fingers twitched toward his sword. He hadn't drawn it—yet.
The guards didn't reach for their weapons, but they didn't move aside either. Their expressions were neutral, but their eyes flicked toward Sight-Rider, waiting.
Aldric's glare burned into her.
"You're going to stop us?"
Sight-Rider didn't answer immediately. She wasn't looking at the guards. She was looking at him.
And for the first time since he had met her, she looked… genuinely surprised.
Not calculating. Not unreadable. Just surprised.
Like she hadn't seen this outcome.
Like this wasn't supposed to happen.
Her gaze flickered slightly, as if searching for some unseen thread of fate that had suddenly unraveled.
Aldric wasn't interested in whatever prophecy she thought she had lost.
"Move them," he said coldly.
For a moment, Sight-Rider said nothing.
Then, with a slow, unreadable breath, she nodded. "Let them go."
The guards hesitated, but a direct order was a direct order. They stepped aside.
Aldric didn't wait for her to change her mind. He strode forward, not looking back.
"Take the Dragles," Sight-Rider called after them. "They only bond to one rider. They wouldn't accept another."
Aldric gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment, but his pace didn't slow.
He was done here. Whatever war they planned to fight, whatever resistance they thought they could mount—they could do it without him.
Lysara walked beside him in silence, the steady echo of their boots against stone the only sound in the underground corridors of Astradan. She didn't question him at first, didn't try to slow him down, didn't try to argue. She just followed.
Finally, as they neared the exit, she spoke, her voice calm but laced with quiet curiosity. "Do you have a plan?"
Aldric nodded once.
She glanced at him, her silver eyes searching, then spoke softly, just for him. "So you memorized the map as well?"
He nodded again.
She let out a slow breath, shaking her head. "Figured."
By the time they emerged from the lower city, stepping back into the open air, their equipment was waiting.
Everything had been gathered—their weapons, their armor, the remaining ingredients from the forge, even the spare supplies they hadn't thought to request. It was laid out neatly, as if prepared before they had even made their decision.
Aldric wasn't sure if it had been Sight-Rider's doing, or if someone else in Astradan had made sure they wouldn't leave empty-handed.
Either way, it didn't matter.
They secured their gear without another word, their bodies still aching from the last fight, exhaustion settling into their bones like a familiar weight—but they both knew they couldn't stay here.
Not anymore.
The Dragles sensed it too.
Dralore lowered his massive bronze-feathered head the moment Aldric approached, his golden eyes meeting his rider's as if he understood. There was nothing left to tie them to this place.
Syn was the same, stepping forward to nudge Lysara with a flick of her silver-tipped wings.
No commands were needed.
Aldric and Lysara mounted without hesitation, and as soon as they were settled, the Dragles launched into the sky, their powerful wings carrying them away from Astradan, the war room, the resistance they had abandoned.
They flew in silence until they reached the hunting grounds, where the remains of their last battle still lingered.
It wasn't ideal, but it was far enough. Safe enough.
They landed in a small, secluded clearing near the treeline, and as they dismounted, Aldric finally allowed himself to breathe.
Tomorrow, they would make plans.
Tonight, they would rest.