Tashlan, Carlon – Catacombs, Year 8002 A.A.
The catacombs beneath Tashlan groaned with ancient sorrow. Moss slicked the stone walls, and the damp air reeked of mildew and lost time. Torchlight flickered along the narrow tunnels, casting skeletal shadows that danced with every footstep. Kon Kaplan and Kopa Boga moved like wraiths, swift and silent, leading a group of weary Narn and ArchenLand refugees toward an uncertain salvation.
Kon's orange fur was darkened by sweat and ash, his yellow ponytail whipping behind him. The scar that bisected his right cheek throbbed faintly with every breath. His single golden eye scanned every tunnel corner with a soldier's vigilance.
"We gotta move, Kopa," he murmured. "I took out a patrol. They'll notice soon."
Kopa nodded, his green eyes focused, antlers scraping against the low ceiling. "They always notice eventually. But we're almost out. If we reach the market tunnels, I can reroute us to the north edge."
Kon slowed, casting a glance toward the huddled mass behind them—dozens of refugees, their eyes wide with fear and hope, their steps unsteady. "If the Ortuk show up, we can't fight with civilians in tow."
Kopa didn't respond. He raised a paw, and a green flicker pulsed from his fingertips. Thin roots spiraled along the wall, mapping nearby energy signatures.
"So far, clear. Let's shift before that changes."
Kon nodded, then summoned a low pulse from Interuim, his Arcem. Yellow mana shimmered around the group.
"Gerçek Kayması," he muttered.
Reality wavered. In seconds, their forms dissolved like heat mirages, fading into invisibility.
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The lower tiers of Tashlan were rot dressed in ruin. Slumped hovels leaned into each other like drunks, their stones crumbling, roofs patched with bone and rusted tin. The stench of rot mingled with burning oil and fear. Children with cracked paws and hollow eyes watched the shadows move past them, unaware of the rescue unfolding in silence.
Kon and Kopa led their invisible flock through twisted alleys and broken tunnels, weaving past torchlit checkpoints and Carlon patrols. Somewhere above, the Trisoc's palace gleamed like a blade in moonlight.
"Back gate," Kopa said, pointing toward a collapsed courtyard overrun with moss. "Least guarded, only two towers."
Kon's eye swept the skyline. "I know this route. Took it last cycle. Unless they've reinforced it..."
They hadn't.
The gate loomed ahead—massive, rusted, half-choked by fallen stone. The perfect escape.
Then the ground trembled.
BOOOOOM!
The blast tore through the nearby wall, sending stone and fire cascading across the alley. Refugees screamed, staggering. Kon dropped to a knee, arms flaring wide as a golden barrier sprang up from Interuim, absorbing shrapnel and flame.
Dust swirled. Screams died.
And from the smoke, two figures stepped through.
Sahira.
Baraz.
Kopa recognized them immediately. Sahira, the cobra Tracient—Hazël #18.All grace and venom, her emerald eyes gleaming with cruelty. Scaled robes slithered as she moved, her long tail curling around her feet. Baraz, the stone-skinned rhinoceros, stood a step behind, taller than any man, horn crackling with violent energy. Hazël #20.
"Ah, the infamous Ronins," Sahira purred. "We wondered when you'd crawl back out of your graves."
Baraz snorted, his deep voice like thunder through gravel. "Caught them just in time."
Kopa stepped forward, planting himself between the refugees and the wall. "Sahira and Baraz," he said darkly. "One ensnares the mind. The other vaporizes the body."
Kon didn't blink. "Who's priority?"
"Sahira," Kopa answered. "Gagon, her Arcem, hypnotizes through eye contact. Petrifies if she loses focus. If she binds the civilians, we lose."
Kon nodded. His paw hovered over his hilt.
Sahira's lips curled. "You know me, Kaplan. I'm touched."
She turned her gaze on the refugees.
And they froze.
Dozens of eyes glazed over, limbs stiffening, postures slackening.
"Damn it," Kopa hissed. "She's got them."
Kon inhaled. His fingers twitched. He was already calculating trajectories, counters, kills. Baraz's horn sparked—a combustion blast primed. He'd fire any second.
Then— the air changed.
A mist rolled in from nowhere. Thick. Crystalline. Glowing faintly with unnatural light.
Cold.
Unreal.
The moment it touched the cobblestone, the world hushed.
Kon froze, eyes narrowing. He remembered this cold. Not the temperature—the sensation. The disconnect from mana itself.
Kopa flinched. "This isn't you?"
Kon shook his head. "Not me."
Sahira went rigid. Her scales dulled, and her pupils shrank.
"No..." she whispered. "No, not her... Not that."
Baraz looked over, frowning. "Sahira?"
"It's her," Sahira whispered, her sultry tone gone. "The White Witch. The one who broke Arcems in the war."
Baraz growled. "A myth."
Sahira pointed. "Then why can't I feel Gagon? Why is my Arcem dead?!"
Kon glanced at the civilians.
Their eyes were clear.
Free.
Kon's golden eye widened.
"Adam," he breathed.
Then Baraz roared. His horn fired.
BOOOOM!
The blast tore through the fog—but it hit nothing.
No Ronins.
No civilians.
Only silence.
The mist curled around the wreckage. A single silhouette stood there a moment longer. Cloaked. Blue-furred. Then gone.
Sahira fell to her knees, trembling.
"That was Kurtcan."