They moved—one true step each—and the world jumped.
Winter Neverland swallowed the seam. The dead moon dulled behind aurora haze; dunes glazed to glass; wolves prowled inside the gale. Tikhan's pressure increased—not louder, just heavier. Centerline closed like a door.
Cyrus felt it. He's about to finish this.
Faye spun without blinking—Vampawat driving the pack, Ossuary Hound on the spear haft, Stone Ram shouldering King Heron's line—answers stacked to keep the guardian honest for one more breath.
Tikhan's responder clicked in his collar. A flat, coded tone.
"Alpha," Yelena's voice, calm over the wind. "Outpost secure. Great Sand Raiders re-formed on the truce stakes. Red Cloaks broken—officers down, stragglers routed. Ground's ours."
Lyudmila, dry: "Overwatch clear. No runners past the ridges."
Davor, amused: "Tell your lambs to stop kicking. We're done."
Tikhan looked at Cyrus once. Then he let the world go.
He closed his Ryōiki.
Black sky lifted. Real noon crashed back—heat, grit, the long quiet after work. The road to the outpost was lanes of frost and fallen banners; spear-lines of Ice Wall lay toppled like broken docks; a dusting of needles marked where one Fang Volley had decided a corridor. Raiders already reformed behind salt cords and rune flags. The Black Fangs moved like a machine: Yelena setting the line with three pike angles and a hand signal; Lyudmila packing seals at the ridge; Gavril's chill thinning off prisoners; the Twins walking a ring, blades down, eyes up.
Most of the Red Cloaks weren't getting up.
Cyrus slid Heart Chaser home. "You Pillars are something else," he said, even. "Thought it was all talk. It isn't. Best of the best."
He tipped his chin. "I'm leaving—for now. But I'm coming back for my rematch."
Tikhan: "I'll be waiting."
A thin Null Seam opened like a page. Cyrus stepped through; Faye followed, parasol brushing the edge as it shut.
Aftermath moved in.
Raiders stacked captured steel and hauled the wounded toward the truce line. Yelena marked boundary stakes with frost and a measured nod to the Raider captain. Davor righted a broken cart into a barricade. Gavril laid a low, clean chill to keep tempers asleep. The Twins counted heads and flags. Lyudmila chalked the last rune out of the dirt and shoulder-tapped a boy to go home.
Tikhan keyed the responder again. "Lucian."
A click. Lucian Soryu's voice came cool through grit. "Report."
"Pushed them back to the truce line. Outpost stands. Red Cloaks scattered. Shinshō withdrew."
A pause. Paper turning. "Good. I'll authorize the bonus for rapid containment."
"Whatever," Tikhan said. "Thanks."
Hoofbeats. Sand-wind.
The Warden of Dust City rode out with a small guard—layered desert lamellar, oasis-round shield, curved saber wrapped in green cloth. Saladin swung down before the stakes. He took in the frost lanes, the tidy piles of captured steel, and the way Tikhan's people stood like a finished sentence.
He bowed—short, warrior to warrior. "Pillar. My city thanks you. You pushed them off our wells without burning a granary. Water-rights mercy will be remembered."
Tikhan's pale eyes tracked once over the Raider ranks. "Your men held."
Saladin's mouth set at one corner. "They'll hold again. If the red ones return, send me a horn." He lifted the shield in salute to the Black Fangs. "Food and water at the outpost for your pack. No ledger."
"Noted," Tikhan said.
Saladin remounted, gave one crisp order in Sand-wind, and the Raiders flowed back along the stakes—orderly, alive.
Yelena fell in at Tikhan's shoulder. "Orders?"
"Hold the stakes. Let the Raiders breathe." Tikhan glanced once at the horizon, "If he comes, we finish it on the line."
He started walking. Behind him, winter was only footprints and work.