Vorath's great leathern wings beat steadily through the twilight air, carrying them deeper into the Umbral Realm. The golden glow of the Luminant Plains faded behind the central mountain spine, swallowed by the perpetual violet dusk of the kingdom's dark half. Below, rolling grasslands gave way to black volcanic soil, and thin plumes of acrid sulfur smoke coiled upward from a chain of smoldering peaks.
Mount Cindervein, the largest of the volcanoes, housed the main demon clan hold. Vorath alighted on a wide ledge of cooled basalt at its base, and Laia stepped lightly from his shoulder to the rough stone.
The sound of their arrival had already carried ahead. A moment later, a towering figure stepped out of the shadow of a great iron gate: skin the color of cooled magma, ridged obsidian horns curling back from his brow, a serrated war-axe slung over one shoulder, still slick with void ichor from the last hunt. This was Gromm, chieftain of the Cindervein demon clan.
"Vorath," Gromm rumbled, his glowing amber eyes flicking past the dragon to land on Laia. His expression was dry, unimpressed. "Godling. To what do we owe the visit? More farming blueprints, or another lecture on offerings?"
Laia's jaw tightened faintly. She'd grown used to the lack of reverence, but it still pricked, every single time.
"The void tide is early," Vorath cut in, with no patience for pleasantries. "Magnitude upgraded to moderate. Forty-eight hours out. Possibly less."
Gromm's lazy smirk vanished instantly. He straightened, his grip on the axe tightening until his knuckles whitened.
"Moderate?" he said, low and sharp. "Last one was barely a skirmish. You're certain?"
"The divine alert does not lie," Laia said. "The barrier is fraying faster than usual. Pull your hunting parties back from the outer flats. Focus your strength on holding the western pass. The dwarves are reinforcing the walls now."
Gromm grunted, already twisting to bark orders at a pair of lesser demons waiting by the gate. They darted off at once, clawed feet thudding heavy against the basalt.
"Knew something felt off," he muttered, half to himself. "The air's been thick since last moon. Fine. We'll muster at the pass by sundown. Tell the shadow clans to seal the lower tunnels. We don't want void things crawling up from behind."
"We're heading there next," Laia said.
Gromm just nodded, already distracted by the bustle of mobilization. No bow, no word of thanks. He turned and strode back through the iron gate, barking commands as he went, and the great door boomed shut behind him.
Laia stared after him for a beat.
"Not even a 'thank you for the warning'," she muttered.
Vorath huffed a dry, rumbling laugh that stirred the dust at their feet. "You wanted them to be good at surviving. They're good at surviving. Praise slows them down."
They did not fly to the shadow enclaves. They walked, picking their way down a narrow, winding path into a deep canyon that opened into the mouth of a vast underground network. The shadow-kind made their homes here, in the endless dark, tending to cave fungi and mining deep veins of shadow-ore.
The tunnels were lit here and there by the soft, golden glow of young sun-blessed trees, planted in alcoves carved into the rock. A tall, slender figure stepped forward to meet them: pale grey skin, silver eyes, wrapped in a cloak of woven shadow-silk. This was Veyra, elder of the deep-shadow clan.
"Vorath. Silent One," she said, her voice soft but clear. "We felt the void shift. We have already set the spike traps in the outer tunnels. The deep passages are being sealed as we speak."
Laia blinked. She'd come to suggest exactly that.
"You already started?"
Veyra's lips quirked into a faint, dry smile.
"We have lived with these tides for two hundred years. We know the signs. Your trap designs worked well last season. We… adjusted them. Narrower channels, deeper pits. They should hold better this time."
Laia nodded, a little chagrined. Of course they'd improved on her work. They always did.
"Good," she said. "Just be careful. A moderate tide brings larger things. They may dig deeper than usual."
"We will," Veyra said, and inclined her head slightly—almost a bow, but not quite.
By the time they returned to the central mountain pass, the whole kingdom had stirred to life.
The dwarves had worked through the night, piling high wooden palisades and reinforcing the stone gatehouse with bands of forged iron. Human hunters and farmers had formed militia units, sharpening spears and stacking crates of dried rations. Elves moved along the ridges, weaving faint green magic into the stone to stabilize loose rock. Demons marched up from the volcanic flats in tight, disciplined ranks, their axes and fire-scoured shields glinting in the dim light. Shadow-kind slipped into position along the cliff sides, nearly invisible against the dark stone. The dragon clan arrayed themselves on the high ridges, wings folded, waiting.
No grand speeches. No prayers for divine favor. Just quiet, efficient preparation.
The first breach came at dawn, three hours earlier than even the revised prediction.
A rift split open in the sky above the pass, oozing thick, inky black mist. The air turned cold enough to frost the stone, and the glow of the sun-blessed trees dimmed to a faint flicker. From the mist poured the void horde: skittering hounds with maws full of needle teeth, gaunt stalkers with long razor claws, and at their core, a towering void behemoth, its body a shifting mass of shadow and ravenous hunger.
The dragons struck first.
Vorath led the dive, the other four dragons fanning out behind him. They slammed into the front of the horde, claws and tails tearing through void flesh, their roars shaking the mountains. No dragon fire—not yet, not until they mastered the new breath technique—but their raw physical strength was more than enough to shatter the vanguard.
The demons met the charge head on, Gromm at their front. His great axe swung in wide, devastating arcs, cleaving through void creatures like dry kindling. They fought in locked-shield formation, cutting down anything that slipped past the dragons' assault.
From the cliffs, the shadow-kind struck. They loosed volleys of sharpened void-bone darts, then melted back into shadow before the creatures could retaliate. Pit traps opened beneath the horde's feet, lined with sharpened stakes, swallowing whole packs of hounds at once.
The dwarves manned the ballistae atop the gatehouse, firing great iron bolts that punched straight through the larger void stalkers. The elves wove thorny brambles up from the ground, tangling the enemy's legs, slowing the advance. The human militias moved in behind the front line, finishing off wounded creatures and carrying the injured back to the temporary infirmary.
Laia stood atop the gatehouse, watching it all unfold.
She did not fight. She rarely did. There was no need. Her people had learned to survive long before she'd figured out how to be a proper god. They fought with a grit and coordination no pampered, faith-bred subjects could ever match.
It was brutal. It was messy. A few demons fell. A dragon was badly clawed across the wing. A handful of human hunters did not make it back.
But they held.
By midday, it was over.
The rift in the sky sealed shut with a low, wet sound. The last of the void creatures was cut down where it stood. Silence fell over the pass, broken only by the clink of weapons and the low murmur of voices counting the dead and the spoils.
The work of butchering and gathering began at once. The great carcass of the behemoth was the biggest prize—enough meat to feed every clan for a month, enough bone and chitin to forge a hundred new weapons and sets of armor. The smaller carcasses were dragged aside, sorted by size and use. Nothing went to waste. Not in this kingdom.
Vorath landed heavily near the gatehouse, his wing crusted with dark ichor but intact. Gromm stalked over a moment later, his armor dented, his axe dulled, but alive and unbroken. Veyra emerged from the shadows, her cloak torn, but her expression calm.
"Clean victory," Gromm rumbled, wiping ichor from his axe blade. "Better than expected. Early warning helped."
He glanced up at Laia, perched on the gatehouse wall, her legs swinging slightly as she watched the spoils be counted.
"You said you wanted a sacrifice," he said, blunt as always.
Laia's head snapped around. She nearly fell off the wall in her haste to straighten up.
"I—yes. Yes, I did."
Vorath rumbled deep in his chest. "We spoke of it, before the tide. A moderate strike calls for some small observance. The clans can spare the time now that the stores are full."
Gromm grunted. "Don't get excited. It won't be fancy. One day. Simple offerings. None of that five-day weakness nonsense. We've got work to do."
"One day is fine," Laia said quickly—almost too quickly. She cleared her throat, trying to reclaim a little divine dignity. "I mean—one day of proper observance will be sufficient. It is… acceptable."
Veyra's faint smile returned. "We will inform the clans. The ceremony will be held at the central altar, seven days from now."
Laia nodded, her chest light. It wasn't much. It was nowhere near the grand, faith-soaked ceremonies the noble-born students at the academy enjoyed.
But it was a start.
As she turned her gaze back to the battlefield, though, her smile faded a little.
Half-buried in the dirt near the behemoth's carcass, half-hidden under a clod of black soil, lay a shard of chitin etched with faint, glowing red runes. Not the natural swirling patterns of void flesh. Runes. Deliberate. Crafted.
She frowned, staring at it.
Void creatures did not wear runes.
She tucked the thought away for later. For now, she had a ceremony to look forward to.
Seven days.
Seven more days, and she'd finally have a little real divinity to work with.