The flicker of the data-slate cast a pale blue glow on Irina’s face, highlighting the sharp angle of her jaw. “Another anomaly,” she murmured, more to herself than to Milosz. He stood beside her in the Bastion’s main research annex, a calculated distance away. He’d ‘accidentally’ left a half-decrypted scroll on her desk – a list of rare stellar-infused mineral deposits, one of which was rumored to be deep within the monster hollows. Perfect bait for a glory-hungry Constellar. “An anomaly?” Milosz piped up, a picture of innocent curiosity. “Did you find a new species of glow-lichen?” Irina shot him a look that could curdle milk. “Don’t play dense, Vodya. This isn’t a list of lichen. It’s a roster of Chimera den locations, supposedly abandoned for centuries. And one of them, deep in the Crucible, aligns perfectly with old expedition logs describing a significant deposit of Aetherium Shards.” She tapped a finger on a schematic of the Crucible’s treacherous lower levels. “Aetherium. The Valerovs would pay a king’s ransom for a fresh vein, especially one that could bolster an S-rank’s Edict.” “Oh, wow! That sounds dangerous,” Milosz said, forcing a nervous chuckle. “Maybe you should tell Damian? He’d love a challenge, right?” Irina narrowed her eyes. “Already planning to. This could be the breakthrough I need to reclaim my research grants. The Valerovs hoard every refined vein. If I can secure even a sample…” She trailed off, already strategizing. Milosz offered a small, encouraging smile. His bait was taken. He excused himself, citing a sudden, inexplicable headache, and returned to his sparsely furnished barracks room, the phantom throb of his Edict a cold satisfaction. The next morning, Milosz feigned a truly spectacular case of 'Astral Malaise,' a common ailment among new Constellars, marked by dizzy spells and erratic Edict fluctuations. He swayed dramatically, clutching his stomach as Gavrila observed him with quiet concern. “You look like you wrestled a Void-Serpent, Milosz,” the shield-bearer rumbled, his voice low. “You sure you can’t make the field run?” Milosz shook his head, managing a weak smile. “I’d just be a liability, Gavrila. My Edict feels like static. Better to rest and… recharge.” Milosz watched, unease coiling in his gut, as Gavrila hefted his heavy steel barrier, the Valerov crest stark on its polished surface. The protective older-brother figure was going into danger for a man who didn't deserve him. Milosz pushed the thought away. Damian was the target. Casualties were inevitable in a war. Damian Valerov, predictably, had swaggered out of the Bastion gates that morning, a picture of gleaming confidence. The prospect of impressing his father with a fresh ore cache, and the added prestige of leading an expedition into the infamous subterranean sinkhole, had outweighed any caution. Irina, her sharp mind focused on the potential research windfall, and Gavrila, ever loyal, had followed. Milosz had watched them go, a cold certainty settling in his chest. Today, Damian Valerov would learn his true place. The sunken quarry was a labyrinth of calcified rock and fungal growths, perpetually shrouded in dim twilight. Luminescent spores clung to every surface, casting an eerie, shifting light that played tricks on the eyes. The air hung heavy with the scent of ozone and decay. Deep within, where the ore beds were rumored to lie, they encountered a pack of ash-drakes – lumbering, armored quadrupeds whose plated hides shimmered with warped light. Their claws were like obsidian blades, their roars shaking the very cavern walls. Damian, always one for a theatrical entrance, lunged first. “King’s Blade!” he roared, his voice echoing. The familiar azure glow, usually vibrant and consuming, flickered. His runic sword, ‘Seraph’s Lament,’ met the lead beast with a glancing blow. The creature merely snarled, its reddish pupils burning, shell intact where the edge should have cut clean through bone. Damian stumbled back, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “What in the…?” he muttered, staring at the unscratched hide. He tried again, summoning more power. The azure light struggled, barely reaching his blade. He struck another drake, but the strike lacked its usual force. It was like watching a grand river reduced to a trickling stream. The beast roared, batting him aside with a casual swipe of its claw. Another elite team, the 'Veridian Sentinels,' had been navigating a parallel path, drawn by the same mineral rumors. They paused, watching Damian's floundering display with undisguised contempt. Their leader, a formidable spear-wielder named Kaelus, scoffed. “Is that the great S-rank Valerov? Looks like his ‘Sovereign’s Edge’ has dulled to a butter knife.” His team snickered, their own Edicts blazing with confident power. Red flushed Damian’s throat. He stumbled back, his borrowed might withered. The pack, sensing weakness, surged forward. One lunged for Damian’s unprotected flank. Gavrila met the beast's charge with his metal bulwark in a hard clang, but the impact buckled his stance. Talons raked across Gavrila’s right arm, shearing steel plate and flesh in a wet tear. He grunted, a strangled sound, his knees buckling. Blood, dark and viscous, streamed down his arm, pooling on the phosphorescent ground. “Gavrila!” Irina screamed, her voice tight with panic. She scrambled back, her meager F-rank Edict useless against the relentless assault. The beasts swarmed them. Damian, his face white, tried to conjure another strike, but his Edict felt like ash. He was useless. He was nothing. The Veridian Sentinels, after a moment of watching the disaster unfold, simply turned their backs. “Let’s find our own ore,” Kaelus called out, his voice flat. “No need to get dragged down by deadweight.” Irina pulled out her comm-link, her fingers fumbling, tears stinging her eyes. The situation was catastrophic. Gavrila lay bleeding, Damian stood frozen, and the monsters were closing in. Her voice cracked, raw with terror and desperation, as she triggered the open-channel emergency broadcast. “This is expedition Alpha-Seven! We’re deep in the cavern, facing an overwhelming pack! Damian’s Edict is failing! Gavrila is gravely wounded! We need immediate medical extraction! Any Constellar, please respond! We’re not going to make it!” The static-laced transmission ended with a ragged sob, followed by a faint, pained wheeze that Milosz instantly recognized as Gavrila’s struggling breath. The comm crackled dead, leaving only the hiss of static in Milosz's quarters. Gavrila. Wounded. The calculated revenge and the satisfaction of watching Damian stumble soured into nausea. He saw Gavrila’s scarred face, his steady guard at the archway, the protective stance offered without demand. He heard Irina’s terrified scream, her voice, usually so sharp and composed, now broken. He saw them, not as pawns in his game, but as people who had, inexplicably, begun to care for him. And he had sent them to their deaths. The Bastion’s emergency sirens began to wail, a distant, mournful cry. Milosz didn't wait. He snatched up his field-medic kit, the Valerov sigil on the side mocking him with its false promise of security. He slung his pack over his shoulder, his nimble fingers already activating the Edict that pulsed beneath his skin, no longer a silent hum but a desperate roar for action. He burst out of his barracks, boots hammering the flagstones, and sprinted toward the main gates of the garrison.

The King's Collapse