The wind carried the scent of iron and pine as the sky above the Valenhart camp slowly brightened. Frost still clung to the tent flaps and armor plates, yet the camp was already a hive of movement.
Foot soldiers laced up greaves. Mages murmured incantations beneath breath clouds. Aerial scouts tightened the straps on their saddles, mounted on beasts of flight and fury.
Above, the Shelb aerial guards dominated the sky, riding wyverns, gryphons, and harpy eagles with practiced ease. They hovered in diamond formations, their wings casting shadows across the snow-slicked cliffs. The air shimmered with aura.
Riders had been gathering aura all morning, drinking from the sky's and land's latent power until their eyes flared unnaturally bright. Aura drunk—that made them deadly.
Leading them, Ethan von Shelb hovered midair like a golden avenger. His golden-blond hair rippled wildly under his helmet, and the tinted goggles over his eyes glowed faintly.
They reflected the golden aura flaring from within. His outstretched arms steadied the rhythm of his forces, and he looked every inch an angel of judgment poised for war.
"Formations holding," he said through the comm-tab, his voice clipped. "Wind pressure to the east is steady. Visibility perfect."
Then, he paused.
"First tide incoming. Unnatural movement. They don't dodge. They don't react."
From the mountain paths below, a tide of beasts spilled forth—clawed, horned, scaled. Unlike the beasts at Armond Pass, who had fought with coordinated precision and eerie intelligence, these seemed stripped of even the most basic instincts.
Fredrick Valenhart observed them from atop the northern watchtower. His grey eyes were sharp behind the edge of his helm. As two dire wolves charged at a massive boulder, he frowned.
"They should just go around," his aide murmured.
But they didn't.
The wolves slammed against the rock, again and again. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed.
Fredrick's frown deepened.
"They're husks," he muttered. "There's no fear, no pain. Just an unnatural frenzy and compulsion."
"Like war machines," the aide whispered.
"No." Fredrick shook his head. "War machines don't suffer. These... these were alive once."
Before another word passed between them, the sky split with a sharp whistle. A harpy eagle dove like a falling star, its rider poised and alert. Talons stretched, snatched something from the chaos below, and rose again.
The bird didn't return to its position among the aerial troops.
Instead, it swooped to the castle gates and dropped its catch just beyond the outer blast perimeter.
Soldiers rushed forward.
The creature sprawled in the snow—a humanoid with four legs and two arms, chitin-plated back, mandible jaws twitching. Antennae fluttered in the cold wind.
Fredrick was already moving, cloak billowing as he descended the watchtower.
"A Hamoon," he said grimly, crouching beside the twitching figure. "They're here."
One of the guards raised his spear, but Fredrick waved it down.
"If he carried an explosive, he'd have blown mid-air or during the drop. This one's a scout."
The realization dawned like black smoke.
"This isn't just a beast tide," Fredrick said. "They are using it as an invasion."
But no more Hamoon emerged.
The hours passed, and the fortress held.
Even Rüdiger von Bügelsheim, aloof and frequently exasperating, stood his ground. With arms outstretched and dramatic flair, his spells roared across the battlefield in dazzling arcs of violet flame.
And as much as Fredrick hated to admit it, the man's mana reserves did seem inexhaustible.
By noon, over a hundred green-ranked beasts were slain, ten yellow-tier creatures neutralized, and even a formidable orange-ranked behemoth—a saber-jawed reptilian—lay dead on the snow.
A cheer rolled through the fortress.
Fredrick opened his comm-tab. "Ethan. Any more Hamoon?"
Ethan's voice crackled back. "None spotted. Still no coordination from the beasts. They're wild. Scatterings to the east, violet-scale. All small-tier."
Fredrick nodded. "Good. Maintain aerial presence. I'll dispatch the southern squad to clean the base range."
A second screen lit up.
Micheal's voice came through, calm and methodical. "Castle barrier grid is intact. Mana stone outputs are holding. Villages in the perimeter show no disturbances. Emergency roads are cleared and patrolled. We're stable."
Fredrick's grip on the railing relaxed. "Good work."
Back in the mage tower, Vivian and Calista had just returned, frost clinging to their cloaks.
"All's quiet near the ridge," Calista reported. "No breach beyond outer lines."
Vivian adjusted her gloves, emerald eyes sharp. "And no casualties on our side. Your Highness, we're holding."
Flora, silent at Magda's side all morning, let out a shaky breath and hugged her.
Magda blinked, then gently returned the embrace.
"Don't celebrate yet," she said softly. "Not until the resonance stabilizes."
She turned to the worktable, activated her comm-tab, and contacted Fredrick.
"I need access to the nearest relay tower."
Fredrick frowned. "Why?"
"It's the tower lined with resonance stones—mana-carved pylons that amplify communication signals," Magda explained. "I think I've finally figured out a way to handle the natural phenomena."
"I found something that can counter the mana fluctuation caused by the Ice Phoenix," she continued. "If I do this right, I can send a counter mana signal, and it could ripple through the region. Ease the beasts' frenzy."
"You sure it's safe?"
"For them? Yes. For me?" She gave a tired smile. "Doesn't matter."
Fredrick sighed. "Wait. I'll send a squad to escort you. Stay put until then."
"Understood."
Micheal sat on the castle wall, legs dangling, a steaming teacup warming his gloved hands. Snow flurried around him, but he remained still, eyes distant.
"You could pick a warmer perch," came a voice.
He didn't turn. "I like the view."
From the air, a shimmer of mana flared. A figure dropped silently beside him.
Lysander Valmont.
Tall, composed, with black hair tied back and aura restrained like a leash at his neck.
"You know the Emperor said I could act however I wanted, as long as I kept Her Highness safe," Lysander said, brushing snow from his shoulder.
"I know."
"Then why do you care if I use a bit of aura?"
Micheal sipped his tea. "Because Magda doesn't know that her assistant has too many side gigs—especially that he's a battle mage who follows her everywhere. And I want to keep it that way."
"I've hidden myself well enough from her till now. In fact, I had you fooled too until recently."
"Yeah... imagine my surprise when I realized my childhood friend seems to know my personal life better than I do."
"Well, I'm not going to stand in your way if you want to play the hero."
"No, not yet."
Lysander blinked, then his expression shifted to one of suppressed rage for a moment before he masked it. "Still hiding it?"
"She has enough to worry about."
"You're stubborn."
"I'm married."
A pause.
Lysander sighed.
It would never change that Micheal had married her—while he could only watch.
Lysander had met Magda before Micheal. He was there when she was presented to the Emperor for the first time. He was there when Micheal saw her for the first time and fell for her.
"So," Lysander drawled, "while you're stationed here, why don't you take a new mount?"
Micheal turned slowly, one brow raised. "Lysander. An aura user's mount isn't just a ride. It's a bond. It's like breathing. Would you ask someone to share lungs?"
Lysander smirked. "Touché. But your mount has too much attitude to be in the North."
"No wonder he hates you, my good friend."
The wind howled again. And far above the mountains, the clouds churned—alive with something waiting to descend.