Ember’s aura glowed—not literally, but those who saw it could feel the pressure. Like there was a giant hand pressing on their chests. Like the air around them suddenly beca a hundred tis heavier.
Her eyes. Those eyes glowed a faint red. Not fire red, not blood red—but red like a mana crystal heated until it glowed.
Father Geryon froze in place. His mouth was still open, ready to hurl the next curse. But no sound ca out. He could only stare at Ember—and for the first ti in his life, he felt... small.
"Demos are allowed." Ember’s voice was calm. Not high, not low. But every word sounded like a hamr hitting an anvil. Clear. Firm. Undeniable.
"Damaging property? Not allowed."
"Inciting violence? Not allowed."
"Using God’s na to justify destruction? Not allowed."
She stared Father Geryon straight in the eye. That look—the sa look that made Nyx, her notoriously deadly deputy, always respect her without reserve—was enough to make the religious leader take a step back.
Then another step.
And another.
Father Geryon tripped over his own feet, almost falling. He grabbed the cross on his neck, gripping it tightly as if it could protect him. "I-I... I am only voicing the truth... The holy scripture says..."
"Your holy scripture says nothing about protecting shops from destruction?" Ember cut in coldly. "Or about respecting other people’s right to be different? Or about not spreading hatred in the na of the Light Goddess?"
Father Geryon could not answer.
Ember turned towards her personnel. "Take them." She pointed to the provocateurs who had been captured—six people, all n, all of whom shouted the loudest and were the first to throw. "Standard interrogation. Find out who paid them."
"W-we were not paid!" shouted one of the provocateurs.
The Nightshade personnel holding him only smirked thinly. "Everyone says that."
Ember looked back at the crowd. The remaining mass—hundreds of people who had been shouting—now just stood in silence. Looking down. Avoiding the gaze.
"Go ho." One word from Ember. Not a request. Not a suggestion. A command.
And they went ho.
Slowly, in silence, the crowd dispersed. So walked fast, so jogged. In ten minutes, the square was empty—only leaving the trash of banners and a few stones that didn’t get a chance to be thrown.
Father Geryon was left alone in the middle of the square that was starting to get quiet. He stared at Ember with burning hatred—but did not dare to approach. Did not dare to speak. Did not dare to do anything.
Ember just stared back. Flatly. Without emotion. Waiting. Challenging.
Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
Father Geryon finally backed away. Turned around. Disappeared among the narrow alleys behind the market.
Her colleague appeared beside Ember. "We let him go?"
"He is not a threat." Ember sighed—the first breath she had taken in minutes. "Just a tool. The one using him... that’s who we have to find."
Her colleague nodded. "I will track it."
"Don’t go alone." Ember stared at him. "Take two personnel. And don’t kill anyone—unless forced."
Her colleague smiled thinly—a smile that never reached his eyes. "Of course, Chief."
Two days later, before dawn, a small convoy moved out of Iron Hearth.
One Garrick’s Fury launcher truck—looming in the middle of the convoy like a wheeled cathedral. One command vehicle—a modified armored SUV, containing Rianor, Riven, Arvid, and Hektor. One guard unit from the Ghost Squad—Dom in the back with his Gauss rifle ready, and two other snipers in separate vehicles. And two units of light cavalry—as scouts and periter security.
They moved in silence. Lights were turned off. Engines were tuned to be as quiet as possible. Only the sound of wheels on the asphalt road accompanied the trip.
Mist Valley. A three-hour drive from Iron Hearth. An empty area on the Southeast border—far enough from settlents. Rocky terrain, surrounded by low hills. In the distance, the forest began to appear—but in the target area, only stones.
When they arrived, the eastern sky began to whiten. Dawn hadn’t broken yet, but the mist was starting to lift.
Rianor got down from the vehicle, crystal tablet in hand. He walked to the edge of a low cliff, looking towards the valley. Two kiloters ahead, a large rock lood—about five ters high, three ters wide. Its shape was irregular, but similar enough to a warship’s boiler.
"Target." Rianor pointed.
Hektor observed with binoculars. "Perfect. Granite rock. Solid. If our missile can destroy that, it ans it’s ready to destroy their steel boilers."
"Or at least disable it," Arvid added. "We don’t need to destroy the boiler—just make it leak. But for the test, a hard target is better."
Riven stood beside Rianor, his arms crossed. "When to start?"
Rianor turned towards the launcher truck. The operator—a young sergeant from the Cavalry unit—was already at his position. The control panel beside him lit up, data from the remote sensors flowed to the crystal screen.
"Prepare the first shot. Target the granite rock at delta-seven coordinates. Test mode—full accuracy, seventy percent explosive power."
The operator nodded. His fingers danced over the panel. "Target locked. Waiting for command."
Rianor looked at Riven. His brother nodded.
"Launch."
WUSSSHHH—!
The first missile darted from the launch tube.
The sound was not like an explosion—it was more like a giant hiss, like the compressed breath of a dragon. A tail of fire burned behind it, illuminating the valley that was still half-dark. A thin trail of smoke left a straight line in the dawn sky.
All eyes followed its trajectory.
Two kiloters.
In a matter of seconds—but it felt like forever.
BRRROOOMMMM!
The explosion was not just a sound—it was a wave. Even from a distance of two kiloters, the gust was felt. Dust and stone fragnts flew in all directions. Smoke billowed high, mixing with the morning mist.
When the dust began to clear, they saw it.
The granite rock was no longer there.
What remained were only small fragnts—debris scattered in a fifty-ter radius. At the center of the explosion, the ground was eroded forming a shallow crater.
Riven whistled softly. "That... that’s enough to destroy their boilers."
Arvid was already busy with his tablet, reading the data sent from the sensors at the explosion site. "Speed exactly as predicted. Trajectory stable. Explosive power... seventy percent produced damage equivalent to the one hundred twenty percent estimate. If we use one hundred percent..." He raised an eyebrow. "Their boilers won’t leak. They will... evaporate."
Hektor laughed—the first laugh in weeks. "You hear that, Rianor? We made a weapon that is too powerful!"
Rianor did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the tablet—reading data after data. Speed. Trajectory. Angle. Explosive power. All numbers were green. All within the desired paraters.
He stared at that screen for a long ti. A very long ti.
Then he sighed—a breath held for weeks, maybe months, maybe since the first ti Northveil fell.
"Perfect." His voice was almost a whisper. Then louder, firr—cutting through the morning silence. "PERFECT!"
Arvid and Hektor shouted with joy. They patted each other’s backs, laughing like children who just got a new toy. Dom raised his Gauss rifle into the air, giving a symbolic salute towards the site of the explosion.
Riven approached Rianor. Quietly, without words. Then he placed a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder—not a pat, but a grip. Tight. Full of aning.
"Garrick must be smiling up there."
Rianor stared at his brother. For the first ti since that eting, he saw warmth in Riven’s eyes—warmth that had disappeared since the wound and Garrick’s death.
"This is for you, Commander." Rianor whispered, looking at the sky which was starting to brighten. "This is for all those who fell at Northveil. We are going ho. Soon."
Back in Iron Hearth, that night Rianor finally slept.
The first deep sleep in weeks.
Beside his bed, on a small table, was a simple vase containing Snow Chrysanthemum flowers—bluish-white, fresh, still with droplets of water. He had picked those flowers from the hospital garden, when he visited Elara before leaving for the test.
"You will succeed." Elara smiled from her wheelchair. "I know it."
"How do you know?"
"Because you are Rianor Sudrath. And you never fail when you have a reason to win."
Rianor closed his eyes. Elara’s smile was imagined in his eyelids.
Two weeks more.
Two weeks more, Northveil will be back in the right hands.
Two weeks more, the revenge for Garrick and thousands of citizens will be paid.
Two weeks more, he can go ho to Elara and say, "I have kept my promise. Now, will you keep yours?"
In the distance, on the snowy road stretching from Sol-Regis to the North, a horse carriage continued to roll. The lights of Iron Hearth were not yet visible—still days of travel. But inside the carriage, a middle-aged man sat with his eyes open, looking at the night sky.
Lucian Sudrath did not yet know that his son had just created a weapon that would change the course of the war.
But he could feel it.
There was sothing in the air—sothing changing. Like before a storm. Like before dawn.
He smiled thinly—for the first ti in a long ti.
My son... you make Father proud.
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