Location: Valley of the Winding Arrow – Eastern ArchenLand | Year: 7002 A.A, Midmorning
The Valley of the Winding Arrow was holding its breath.
Even the wind, which usually came merrily tumbling down the jagged cliffs, seemed hesitant now—whistling in slow, measured sighs as if it feared waking something ancient in the stone. Shadows clung stubbornly to the crooked canyon walls, and the air was dry enough that every movement of boot against gravel whispered like parchment being torn.
Lord Jeth stood over the strange, faintly glowing mark in the rock—this rune that hadn't been there yesterday. At first glance, it could have been no more than a trick of the light, a smear of lichen or mineral vein. But Jeth had lived too long in the borderlands to be fooled by pretty patterns. This thing pulsed faintly—like a heartbeat you couldn't quite hear but could feel in your ribs.
He adjusted the long straw in his mouth with his tongue, his free hand resting on his belt. The playful, country drawl that normally came easily to him stayed lodged somewhere behind his teeth. His boots crunched forward, one slow step at a time, until the space between him and the rune felt narrow and… personal.
Then he stopped. Mid-step. The sort of stillness that happens when instinct has already decided before the mind catches up.
It came all at once.
A flare. No—an eruption—of mana signatures, not here, but everywhere. Dozens—no, hundreds—igniting like brushfires in the darkness of his senses, scattered across ArchenLand's territories. His skin prickled. This was not the isolated disturbance Talonir had hinted at. This was… coordinated.
The straw shifted to the corner of his mouth as his jaw tightened. 'This ain't good… not by a long shot.'
His first thought was the capital—Valoria. It would be the first place to burn if this was an attack, and he had no doubt that whoever was behind these signatures would want it to burn. He turned sharply on his heel, gravel skittering underfoot, ready to make for his mount and ride hard.
But the valley didn't intend to let him leave that easily.
A sound—not a proper sound, but a thump in the air—rolled behind him.
BOOOOM!!!
A burst of dust followed, blooming outwards in a hot rush that swept over his boots and up the cliff faces. The shock of it set the loose stones rolling, little pebbles racing each other down the slope like frightened mice.
Jeth stopped dead. His shoulders drew back slowly, as if bracing against a wind that hadn't yet come.
The straw rolled to the other side of his mouth. It was an old habit, the kind he'd kept from his youth—a way of keeping the smirk without giving away the nerves. But this time, the smirk didn't follow. His gaze widened, sharpened, a flicker of something deadly serious crossing those easy-going eyes.
And there they were.
Over a hundred of them, blotting out the narrow end of the valley with their hulking forms. They moved with a casual arrogance, each step stirring more dust, the air thickening under the weight of their collective mana. No need for introductions—Jeth had met their kind before, though never in such a number. The peculiar, almost too-sharp glint in their eyes marked them as something far worse than regular soldiers.
Özels.
They weren't just warriors—they were specialists. Bred for power, trained for precision, and dangerous enough that you never met more than two or three at a time unless your luck had well and truly soured.
Jeth's fingers flexed loosely at his sides, as though weighing the air itself. His tongue flicked the straw again, more to keep himself from speaking than from any real habit now. There was nothing to say yet—only a cold calculation passing behind his gaze.
'So it starts here, does it?' he thought grimly.
The air in the valley seemed to grow heavier with each passing heartbeat, as though the land itself recognized the gravity of what had just taken place. The faint light of the rune still pulsed behind Jeth, casting strange shadows that stretched and twisted across the jagged rock faces.
"You lot have some nerve," Jeth muttered, the words rolling lazily off his tongue, though the weight behind them was anything but casual. His voice carried a certain dryness, a subtle bite, the sort that made lesser opponents think twice. Yet his stance had shifted—ever so slightly—to one of readiness. A hand hung loosely at his side, but the slight bend in his knees and the way his shoulders squared betrayed his intent. He was prepared to move at the first sign of trouble.
From among the gathered Özels, one stepped forward with deliberate calm. The crowd seemed to part for him without a word, and the sound of his steps echoed against the valley walls. He was lean, his frame built for speed, and his dark fur shimmered faintly under the dull light. Streaks of silver ran along his limbs and face, lending him a dangerous, almost regal air. On his shoulder, bold and unmistakable, was the number #52—a badge of his status and skill.
His silver eyes locked on Jeth, and though his voice was smooth, it carried the weight of deep-seated disdain.
"Hmph," he began, almost lazily, but his tone dripped with challenge. "We were told to secure this path… and make sure no one escapes through here while the Masters children keep the Narn Lords busy." His eyes narrowed, and the faint curl of his lip revealed the sharpened tips of his fangs. "Didn't expect we'd find one of the Lords here instead."
Jeth's jaw shifted slightly, his straw rolling from one corner of his mouth to the other. 'Children of Shadow… so they're moving openly now.'
Another figure emerged from the ranks, shorter and almost frail at first glance, but the jagged scar tissue along his wings told another story. This one was a moth tracient, his greyish scales catching the light in strange patterns, antennae flicking restlessly as if tasting the tension in the air. #150 was scrawled into the membrane of one wing like a brand. His smile was crooked, almost giddy, as though the prospect of violence was a long-awaited gift.
"What luck for us," he chuckled, his voice low but edged with hunger. "Didn't think we'd get to handle a Narn Lord directly. This'll be fun."
The valley trembled with the arrival of another voice—a voice so deep and resonant it seemed to vibrate in Jeth's chest.
"Fun?!" The booming growl rolled over them like distant thunder. From the ranks lumbered a massive boar tracient, his bulk blotting out the glow of the rune for a moment. He wore his size with pride, muscles corded and flexing with every step, and his tusks gleamed dangerously, catching what little light filtered into the valley. The number #5 was etched boldly across his massive shoulder, a rank so high it needed no further introduction.
"It's just one rat," the boar grunted, his eyes glinting with impatient bloodlust. "Let's finish him quick. I wanna watch the Lords and the Shadow's Children fight."
Jeth's fingers twitched slightly at his side, though his expression remained unreadable. His gaze swept the trio—and the silent, watchful crowd behind them—measuring, calculating. The wind carried the faint tang of dust and distant blood, and the knowledge that the rest of ArchenLand was under siege pressed at the edges of his thoughts.
'High-ranked Özels in one place…' he thought, eyes narrowing as he caught the faint movement of another figure among the shadows. 'This isn't a patrol. This is a blockade. Which means… someone doesn't want me interfering.'
The group of Özels began to fan out, a disciplined ripple through their ranks. The sound was faint but unmistakable—boots grinding on gravel, claws tapping against stone, wings flexing with the quiet rasp of chitin. Their shadows stretched long and jagged across the valley floor as they closed the ring around him.
Several drew weapons: blackened steel blades that seemed to drink the light, polearms with jagged, barbed edges, and serrated sickles shaped like the mandibles of the beasts they resembled. Others didn't bother with steel; they simply let their mana flare to its fullest. The air seemed to bend around them, shimmering with heat and power, and the pressure of it pressed against Jeth's skin like an incoming storm front.
A faint metallic tang reached his nose—the sharp scent of awakened mana, like iron and ozone, mingling with the dry dust of the valley floor.
Jeth didn't move at first. He stood as though rooted, one hand loose at his side, the other rolling his ever-present straw from one corner of his mouth to the other. His eyes roamed over them, never lingering too long in one place, but taking in every detail: who favored their right foot, whose breathing betrayed nervousness, who was watching him with predatory stillness.
Slowly, almost lazily, he rolled his shoulders, the bones in his neck giving a faint pop as he tilted his head from side to side.
"You lot," he said, his voice quiet, but it carried in the stillness, "made a big mistake coming here."
Something in that tone made the front ranks shift their weight—subtle, but noticeable. It wasn't a threat in the way they were used to hearing them. There was no heat in it, no bark of anger. Just cold, flat truth.
Then his eyes narrowed, and the restrained flicker of mana around him swelled, igniting into a roaring presence that filled the valley like a sudden flood. It wasn't light—it was weight. Every heartbeat seemed to slow under it. Stones rolled faintly away from his boots, as if unwilling to remain in his shadow.
The glow of the rune at his feet dimmed against the sheer brightness of his aura.
"Whoever orchestrated this plan," Jeth said, his voice carrying the weight of an unshakable verdict, "has severely underestimated the strength of the Narn Lords… and ArchenLand."
He stepped forward. Just one step—but it carried him into their air, into their space. The ground beneath him seemed to creak faintly, though whether it was stone or the air itself giving way, no one could say.
His tail swayed behind him in a slow, deliberate arc, the motion more feline than rodent, each pass through the air a silent punctuation.
"You will all," he said, each word slow, the quiet crackle of mana punctuating it, "die here today."
The wind shifted. And for the first time, some of the Özels flinched.
______________________________
Trevor's Grove — Heart of the Western Woodlands
Late Afternoon, Minutes After the First Detonations
The grove was no longer the sanctuary it had always been. Where once the air was filled with the fragrance of blooming peach blossoms and the hum of cicadas, now there was only the acrid stench of smoke and the roar of fire devouring the life it had once nurtured.
Trevor stood at the grove's center, his boots planted in ash, the once-soft moss now trampled and charred beneath him. His eyes locked on the sight that tore through his heart more than the encircling enemy—his favorite peach tree, the one he had planted himself, was engulfed in flame. The blossoms that had glowed pink in spring now curled black in the heat, each falling petal a burning ember drifting to the earth.
His jaw clenched, and his hands tightened around the Maymum staff. The staff seemed to hum, almost sensing the tempest inside its master.
They dared to set foot here… here, of all places?
"Elemi, Second Climb: Şimşek Çemberi!"
The words burst from him, reverberating through the grove. Mana surged up his arms, racing into the staff until its length thrummed with raw power. Lightning danced and snapped along the staff, gathering at the tip before exploding outward in a blinding arc.
The air screamed as the electricity leapt from branch to branch, ricocheting through enemy ranks. In an instant, the grove's invaders—spindly insectoid forms, skittering fox tracients, and chittering arachnids—convulsed violently, their bodies outlined in brilliant light before collapsing in smoking heaps.
The scent of ozone mingled with the smoke. Silence followed, broken only by the distant crackle of flames.
Trevor's chest rose and fell sharply, sweat cutting paths through the soot on his face. He scanned the grove—what was left of it—searching for movement. But all that moved were the embers drifting in the breeze and the flames that gnawed mercilessly at bark and branch.
His grip on the staff tightened until his knuckles turned white. "How?!" he barked into the smoldering air, voice cracking with frustration. "How did they get through?!"
It wasn't just anger—it was the helplessness that came when your home was violated, when all the wards and barriers you trusted crumbled without warning.
'I should have known… should have been ready. If they broke through here, then the capital—'
His head snapped toward the east, eyes widening as a chilling realization set in. The capital was vulnerable.
No more hesitation. He bent his knees, channeling his mana into every muscle. The ground beneath him split with the force of his launch, sending a sonic boom echoing through the grove. Trees bent and grass flattened in his wake as he became a streak of motion, the Maymum staff trailing sparks.
Behind him, Trevor's Grove continued to burn, the peach tree collapsing with a crack and a shower of embers—a final farewell to a place he had sworn to protect.
_____________________________
Location: Valoria – Capital of ArchenLand
Valoria was no longer a city—it was a battlefield dressed in the remnants of a home. The once-bright banners fluttering from its towers were now torn and blackened, their colors drowned in the haze of smoke that coiled through the air like restless serpents. Every street was alive with the sound of war: steel ringing on steel, shouts of orders, cries for help, and, beneath it all, the deep, thrumming roar of an enemy tide that had already broken through the city's gates.
The cobbled avenues, usually bustling with merchants and children, had become rivers of fleeing citizens. Mothers clutched little ones to their chests; elders stumbled forward with glazed eyes, dragged along by younger hands; soldiers in battered armor fought to clear paths, their breath ragged, faces streaked with soot. The enemy poured in from all sides—shadows with too many legs, wings that blotted out the light, and eyes that glowed like coals in a storm.
In the middle of it, a small squirrel tracient stumbled into the open. Her fur, normally sleek and glossy, was matted with dust, her tiny paws scraped and trembling. She looked too small for this world, darting her head left and right in a frantic search for escape. Then her foot caught on a loose stone, and she went sprawling across the street, landing hard.
The shadow that fell over her was sudden and suffocating. She froze where she lay, her breath coming in sharp, quick bursts. Above her, a towering insect soldier loomed, its chitin glistening black and green in the dull light. Its mandibles clicked together slowly, as though savoring the sound before the kill.
And then—blur.
The space in front of her shifted, fur and muscle replacing shadow. Tigrera landed in a low crouch, the lines of her body tense, eyes burning with focus. She didn't waste a breath; her claws gleamed as she lashed upward, forcing the insect to reel back.
But the creature's retreat was only an instant—it lunged again, all jagged limbs and snapping jaws.
Before it could strike, its body convulsed violently, a shudder that passed from head to tail. Then it tore apart—not in blood, but in a spray of wooden shards and sap that pattered wetly across the cobbles. Where the creature had stood now rose twisting branches, fresh and green, curling like a living snare before withering into nothing.
From behind them, Kopa stepped into view, his stance low, his hands clasped together tightly. Mana hummed in the air around him, a quiet yet unstoppable force, the scent of fresh earth mingling with the smoke.
"Are you alright, little one?" His voice was calm, but it carried the kind of firmness that didn't allow for argument.
The squirrel could only nod, her small chest heaving. Her wide eyes locked on his for a heartbeat, as if trying to understand how anyone could be steady in such chaos.
Kopa's expression softened into something almost warm, though his shoulders stayed ready. He tilted his head toward Tigrera, a wordless understanding passing between them. Then he spoke, still watching the girl:
"Go. Now. It's not safe here."
Tigrera scooped the squirrel up gently, already moving before the words had fully left his mouth. The patter of their retreat was quickly swallowed by the storm of battle.
As Tigrera's silhouette vanished into the smoke with the squirrel clutched to her, Kopa did not spare them another glance. His focus locked forward. The enemy had no intention of slowing; they poured down the street like a living flood, wings buzzing, claws scraping against stone, mandibles snapping in jagged rhythm.
He brought his hands together with a slow, deliberate motion. A subtle tremor ran through the cobblestones at his feet, as if the city itself were bracing for what came next. Mana welled up from somewhere deep within him—not a shallow pool but an ancient, unyielding ocean.
"Gaia'nın Dokunuşu!" (Gaia's Touch!!)
The words left his mouth like the toll of a great bell, and the earth answered.
The ground split, and from its wounds surged vines thick as tree trunks, green and coiled with raw vitality. They rose in an instant, twisting in great arcs before snapping forward. One wrapped itself around a hulking spider tracient, its legs thrashing wildly before thorns pierced deep, silencing it with a wet crunch. Another vine shot up beneath a cluster of fox tracients, hurling them into the air before impaling them mid-fall, sap-slicked barbs tearing through fur and flesh.
More erupted all around, forming a writhing wall of thorns and leaves. They lashed out like serpents—pulling, crushing, shredding—turning the street into a green hell that swallowed invaders whole. The air filled with the mingled sounds of shrieks, snapping wood, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting stone.
Yet for all the devastation, Kopa's gaze was not on the vines. It was on the horizon, where the enemy kept coming.
'This shouldn't be possible…' His thoughts burned even hotter than the battle. 'Lord Thrax's shield is absolute. No enemy should breach it—not even by force.'
The vines tightened around another wave, but his mind kept racing. His breathing slowed, his focus turning inward.
'Unless…'
His gaze sharpened, his hands tightening against each other even as another wave of vines surged forth. 'Unless someone was already inside. Unless they slipped the knife into our defenses from within the walls.'
The thought landed cold and heavy in his chest. A traitor.
His jaw set, his voice dropping to a near-growl. If that was true, this invasion wasn't just an attack—it was a betrayal, and the venom of it ran deeper than the claws of any enemy outside the gates.
Before Kopa could trace the threads of his suspicion further, a violent pulse of mana surged behind him—so sudden and concentrated that instinct moved him before thought. He twisted and leapt sideways, boots striking against the fractured cobblestones just as a blazing projectile tore through the space he had occupied.
BOOOM!!!
The impact behind him was thunderous. Stone shattered, timber splintered, and a shockwave of grit and debris swept the street. He landed in a low crouch, shielding his eyes from the swirling dust.
Through the settling haze, a figure emerged.
The newcomer's presence was sharp, almost painful to look at—his exoskeleton catching what little sunlight pierced the smoke, each segment gleaming like oiled steel. Mandibles clacked in slow, deliberate rhythm, their sound carrying an unnerving certainty, as though he had already envisioned the fight's end. The multifaceted gleam of his eyes reflected not just the street, but Kopa himself in a dozen fragmented images—prey surrounded from every angle.
"I'm impressed," the insect tracient said, his voice a low, thrumming vibration, each word humming with alien menace. "No ordinary soldier—no, not even an Özel—could have evaded that strike."
Kopa rose from his crouch, back straight, chin lifted. The calm in his posture was deliberate, a barrier against the way the other's killing intent pressed against his chest like a physical weight.
The insect's mandibles curved into something like a smile, though it was a gesture without warmth—purely predatory. "You must be… something special." His voice darkened, carrying the relish of an apex hunter who had found worthy prey. "This should be fun."
Kopa's eyes narrowed slightly, the vines behind him shifting restlessly as though they, too, sensed the danger. Fun was the last word he would have chosen for the hour, but he did not speak it aloud. Instead, his mind centered itself, drawing his focus inward. The city still burned, the shield was still breached, and the truth about a traitor still gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
But all of that could wait.
For now, there was only this fight.