Date: June 19, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Morning in the Iron Gullet smelled not of dew, but of burnt steel and ozone. Valtorn's gravitational pressure had stabilized overnight, turning into a monolithic dome that pressed on the shoulders of every defender. Dur woke up with the feeling that his own internal organs now weighed twice as much. His energy circulated at an accelerated rhythm—his body intuitively tried to compensate for the external load. His regeneration worked non-stop: small hemorrhages in his eyes, appearing from the pressure, disappeared in minutes, leaving his gaze clear and sharp.
Divilla waited for them at the entrance to the "chambers of stillness." Today she was in full battle array, her armor shimmering with purple sparks, and the space around her constantly "collapsed" and expanded. She looked like a drawn bowstring.
Behind the doors of Commander Somn's chambers, the world changed again. Gravity here seemed almost imperceptible, displaced by the thick haze of stillness. Somn wasn't sitting on his carved bed. This time, he was ensconced on a wide podium by the window, piled high with cushions. In the center of this mountain, Somn lay on his side, wrapped in a heavy blanket of polar spider silk—it was cool and constantly changed temperature, adapting to its owner's body. In his hands, he clutched a new pillow, delivered by morning teleport from the capital—it was stuffed with "ice lily" petals, which retained their frosty freshness even in the hottest battle.
"Divilla... have you come for a blessing or for advice?" Somn didn't even open his eyes, settling his cheek more comfortably on the cool pillowcase. "Your aura is cutting space like a dull knife. You need to relax."
"Valtorn is in position," Divilla ignored his remark, her voice dry. "He's preparing a gravitational rift. If I don't intervene, the Iron Gullet will collapse within the hour. But if I enter the fight, Alvost may unleash their monster."
Somn slowly opened one eye. His gaze, usually sleepy, became deep as an abyss for a moment.
"Arch-Consul Moros..." he whispered, and in this name, Dur sensed a threat equal to death itself. "Yes, I feel him. He's over there, on the other side, in his floating palanquin. He won't stir as long as I don't leave this bed."
Somn adjusted his pillow and closed his eyes again.
"That is the balance, Divilla. I am here so Moros doesn't turn this world into one big mass grave. He is there so I don't destroy the legions of Alvost with a single yawn. We are two banks of the same river. As long as we are both in place, the battle will belong to you."
The Commander lazily waved his hand towards Dur and Maël.
"Your task today is not to watch us. Watch your feet. Valtorn will press, Divilla will castling his strikes. But those whose power reaches the level of Herald or below will storm the walls. For you, children, this will be the longest day of your lives. If, of course, you haven't learned to sleep on the move."
Stepping onto the citadel's walls was like stepping into outer space without a suit. As soon as they left Somn's zone of stillness, Valtorn's gravity hit them with full force.
Dur felt his knees buckle. His strength was too meager to completely ignore such pressure. He saw the garrison soldiers breathing heavily, leaning on their spears. But Dur, guided by his animal instinct and talent for densification, didn't allow himself to bend. Dur's regeneration worked overtime, restoring micro-tears in his thigh muscles even as he walked.
On the horizon, the sky darkened. General Valtorn raised his hand, and a pillar of black light burst from his palm, shooting into the clouds.
"It has begun," Divilla whispered.
The space around her suddenly cracked. She didn't wait for Valtorn to strike. Her Spirit of Castling activated at full power. She turned into a flickering vortex that moved across the entire front of the Iron Gullet.
When Valtorn launched a gravitational "anchor"—a black sphere capable of crushing a tower—Divilla instantly castled that projectile, swapping it with an empty patch of air a mile above the ground. The gravity rifts thundered in the sky like endless thunder, not reaching the walls. Divilla had completely blocked Valtorn. Two 5th-level Adepts were locked in a higher-order duel, neutralizing each other and creating a zone of relative calm around the fortress where space and weight constantly shifted.
"Without the General's support, they'll assault with infantry!" an officer on the wall shouted. "Everyone to your posts!"
From the mist raised by the gravitational strikes, the legions of Alvost emerged. These were not ordinary soldiers. At the front marched assault detachments—beings and humans. Their Spirits were honed for destruction: fiery whips, stone battering rams, bone armor.
Dur stood at the breach in the western wall, clutching Gorn's knife in his hand. Beside him, Maël activated his Spirit. His Energy shimmered with a quicksilver gleam, adapting to the chaotic changes in weight created by Divilla's castlings.
"Dur," Maël looked at his friend. His gaze was focused. "We are the weakest link in this chain. Our strength to them is like paper."
At that moment, the first assault ladder struck the parapet. An Alvost warrior of the Pillar level leaped onto the wall. His skin was covered with horny growths, and madness blazed in his eyes.
Dur felt his power concentrate in his legs. He wasn't a hero. He was a talented middle-grounder who had learned to recover faster than others died. And today, while Somn slept on his cool pillow and Divilla fought the sky, Dur had to become the stone over which the legion would stumble.
Valtorn and Divilla had created the stage. Somn and Moros provided the silence. Now it was time for Dur and Maël to play their part in this symphony of blood.