Date: June 19, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Night brought no peace to the Iron Gullet, only changed the colors of chaos. The sky above the citadel blazed with the purple ruptures of Divilla's Castlings, which collided with the inky density of Valtorn's gravitational anomalies. But down there, at the foot of the walls, few thought about that. For those fighting in the mud, the battle of Adepts was something transcendental, like a natural disaster they couldn't influence.
Dur sat in the shadow of a barricade, his back against the rough stone. His left arm was firmly bound to his chest with strips of his cloak. The pain in his shattered shoulder was dull and deep, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Regeneration continued its invisible work inside his body. It was agonizing: he felt the energy forcibly pulling the bone fragments together, making the tissues fuse against the laws of nature.
"Drink," Maël handed him a flask of tasteless, iron-tasting water.
Maël didn't look much better. His Spirit was silent, unable to adapt further to the chaotic weight fluctuations. They were both at their limit.
Somewhere deep in the fortress, behind three rows of walls, Commander Somn, a Spirit Lord, slept in his chambers. He didn't care about breaches or the wounded. For him, this war was just background noise, disturbing his enjoyment of the coolness of a new pillow. His colossal Energy was coiled within him; he didn't release it outward, didn't protect the walls, didn't help the soldiers. He simply existed in his cocoon of luxury, while Initiates died for his right to dream. This contrast—between the indifference of the higher-ups and the suffering of the lower ranks—was felt here more keenly than Valtorn's gravity itself.
"On your feet, scum!" a sergeant's voice, hoarse and cracked, cut through the silence. "The breach won't mend itself! Warriors to the masonry, Initiates to hauling stones! Move it!"
Dur got up, leaning on the wall with his right hand. The whole world swayed. Valtorn's gravitational pressure at night became especially treacherous—it piled on in jerks, making blood rush to the head.
The grueling night work began. Dur, using only his right arm, dragged stone fragments to the breach. Each step resonated with a ring in his broken collarbone. Beside him, Warriors worked—they easily lifted boulders Dur could barely budge. Their Energy Development made their movements confident and powerful, while Dur felt like a cripple.
"Hey, one-arm!" one of the veteran Warriors shoved Dur with his shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet. "Get out of the way. Your carcass is only kicking up dust here. You're about as useful as a dead cat."
Dur said nothing. He couldn't get angry—he simply didn't have the strength. He saw the difference between himself and those who stood just one step above. Warriors were the "tools" of war, while he was just expendable material.
His power within his Vessel had reached its density limit. His Initiate-level energy was compressed to the state of a red-hot core; there was nowhere left to densify it. Dur felt he had hit a wall.
Maël worked nearby, his lips pressed tightly together. He saw his friend being humiliated, saw Dur, overcoming the pain, continue to haul stones. In the Agrim heir's eyes, a cold fury simmered—not at the soldiers, but at his own powerlessness.
By the pre-dawn hour, the breach was partially repaired. Dur placed the last stone and collapsed to his knees. His stamina was at zero. Regeneration slowed, having no fuel, and the pain in his shoulder flared up with renewed vigor.
He looked east. There, beyond the legions of Alvost, the sky was beginning to turn the color of dried blood.
Dur realized: if he met this dawn as an Initiate, he wouldn't survive the next hour. His vessel demanded change. His energy demanded release. And somewhere up there, Divilla continued to fight for their lives, not even knowing that one of her "tools" was on the verge of final destruction.