Castle Velhor stood like a memory carved in stone.
Astra walked the outer ramparts, boots tapping against gray-marble brick as his eyes swept across the fortress. Its walls were ancient—weathered by time and scarred by siege. Arrow marks, scorch lines, collapsed parapets rebuilt over the centuries. Battle had kissed every part of this place. And yet… it endured. Towering spires jutted into the desert sky, banners of House Vela fluttering like solemn prayers. The gray marble shimmered faintly with mana—reforged and reinforced again and again, until even time itself seemed to bow before it.
Velhor didn't bend. It stood.
The town surrounding it was no mere outpost. It sprawled outward in concentric rings—shops, barracks, shrines, and watchtowers—all nestled in the protective shadow of the castle. Large enough to house tens of thousands, it was impressive by most standards. But to Astra, it felt small. Penumbra and Shadowkeep were continents in stone. Duskfall, a living metropolis of towers and eternal twilight. Compared to those, Velhor felt like a well-built pond.
Still, it had a soul. You could feel it in the stones.
It had been four days since the jump.
Astra still felt queasy thinking about it.
They'd departed from the outer encampment of Shadow's forward base, where the siege-class Jump Engine had been erected—a monstrous lattice of darksteel, runes, and mana-forged coils. It wasn't made for comfort. The teleportation it provided was forceful, surgical, and absolute. Rank Ones vomited. Some passed out. Even Rank Twos stumbled on landing.
Astra held himself together—but just barely.
The world had blurred. Ripped. Then reassembled. One moment, cold midnight in the Umbral Plains—the next, blinding sun and scorched stone. They'd landed deep in the desert, outside the protective reach of Shadow's territorial wards, in a cracked red-rock region where the heat shimmered and time slowed. A forward logistics camp had already been prepared—likely used to deploy the Second Battalion weeks prior. Transport tents, mana arrays, supply nexuses—it was all there, humming with efficiency.
But the moment his boots touched the sand, Astra froze.
The stars.
He could feel them—clearer than ever before. His mana surged unnaturally. His core felt… overfilled. His senses stretched thin and far.
The desert sky was sharp and clear. Even in daylight, the stars were visible if you looked hard enough. Something ancient stirred within him. His shadow magic simmered just beneath the skin. His connection to the constellations deepened. Even Merry had asked—half-alarmed, half-curious—why his aura was flaring so violently.
Their convoy had moved out hours later.
Carriages, mana beasts, knight-borne mounts. Some rode wyverns with burning eyes, others desert-born steeds imbued with rank-three mana. Flying ships, too. Astra had taken to the skies at first, aboard one of the darksteel-hulled crafts, but eventually opted for a steel-framed carriage lined with shadow-glass, where he could sit in silence and read, and not throw up.
Seven hours passed.
And then he saw it.
Velhor.
They arrived as twilight melted into night. The stars were out in full.
Astra gasped.
Not at the fortress—though it was worthy of awe. He gasped because the heavens greeted him. The sky didn't just glimmer—it sang. Mana swirled around him like a tide. He could feel the cosmos descend, touching his shoulders, whispering.
A distant star pulsed in rhythm with his breath—familiar. Watching. Waiting.
He remembered Merry's voice beside him, quiet and tense: "Your aura… it's vibrating. I felt it."
So did he.
The gates opened. Four companies marched in.
Astra was met with nods, salutes, and lingering glances.
The other company commanders were already stationed—arriving by different paths, hours earlier. All Rank Three. All seasoned. Tenor of Shadow: a towering dark dwarf with black-iron skin and molten-gold eyes—descended from Shadow's lineage. Shroud: an older elven woman with pale skin and hair the color of dusk, voice like velvet steel. Astra found it difficult not to stare.
And then, there was Specter.
The youngest of them all—Astra's age. A fellow outsider. No noble blood. No divine legacy. A soldier born in ash and war, shaped by steel and fire. Rumors whispered of two Legendary cores—both of the highest quality. And yet no arrogance. Just quiet silver eyes tinged with red, and a kind of stillness that made you wary.
"Funny. He's literally my age," Astra had thought. "And already that powerful…"
They were to meet soon—Astra, the other commanders, and the nobles of House Vela.
But for now, he walked the castle.
Castle Velhor's halls were carved from stone and siege.
Astra stepped through the long corridor, footsteps echoing against the battered basalt floor. Rough-hewn walls bore the scars of past battles—fractures along pillars, gashes in the dark stone, faded bloodstains preserved like history's fingerprints. House Vela took pride in these scars. They weren't ashamed of their battered walls—they were proof their fortress had never fallen.
They were a minor house. No angel. No divine guardian. Just seven saints, pledged to House Shadow, now scattered across distant fronts—commanding battalions or striking at divinities beyond mortal grasp. Their absence meant only one thing: the war of mortals would be fought by mortals. For now, no Rank Fours or above would interfere.
The bishops of Vela were elsewhere, called to the divine lines. In their place, the castle was left to a knight—Lord Seif Vela, a pinnacle-tier Rank Three forged in desert wars. Acting Lord of Velhor.
The first four days after Astra's arrival had been calm. Too calm. Patrols rotated like clockwork. No word from the border. Second Battalion had crossed into contested territory and launched their assault. No calls for aid. No warnings.
Astra had begun to grow restless. The commanders met daily. The companies drilled, trained, and drank together. Familiarity set in.
Even if Second Battalion failed, fallback protocols were clear: retreat northward to a Shadow-held outpost where reinforcements waited.
So far—nothing.
Astra adjusted his armor as he moved—black and rippling like a canvas of the night sky. He had just finished sparring with several platoon commanders. His curls were damp with sweat, eyes glinting like twin void-stars. He didn't walk like a soldier.
He walked like a prince carved from dusk and defiance.
The meeting chamber lay ahead.
He stepped through the arch.
They were already there.
Tenor stood tall—old and solid, dark skin like volcanic steel. The ouroboros insignia on his chestplate glinted gold under torchlight. Lord Seif, sharp-featured, middle-aged, with a trimmed beard and storm-dark eyes. Shroud, short and elegant, hair like spilled ink, gaze like dusk. And Specter—slight, silver-dull eyes, ash-gray hair, olive skin, quiet as fog.
The air hung heavy.
They turned and bowed in unison.
"Prince Astra."
It never stopped feeling strange—being bowed to by nobles and veteran commanders.He carried the blood of gods—of Night and of Shadow. Divine lineage ran in his veins, ancient and potent. But that meant little now. His house had fallen. His name, dimmed. He was a Rank Two, appointed Brigadier General of Castle Velhor by decree—no ceremony, no procession, just orders.
Why him? He had no answer.But he knew what this was. A test.A cruel one.
To angels and saints, lives were numbers. Losses were acceptable. Death expected. Mortals were tools.
And tools broke.
Astra stepped forward, nodding to Seif.
"You may begin your debrief, Lord."
Seif's voice was grave.
"Commanders. Prince. We received transmission fragments from Second Battalion—barely caught by our array receptors. The assault on Shinderville has failed. They're in full retreat."
Astra's jaw tightened.
"Details?"
"Half the battalion wiped out. A third of their companies are en route here, now. The rest routed north, toward the Shadow outpost. But…"
He hesitated.
"Our entire border network has gone dark. Communications are being jammed. All of them."
Astra turned to Shroud.
"Can we expect reinforcements?"
She shook her head.
"None for now, Prince. Most of House Shadow's forces were rerouted to support Dune. They're under siege from nearly every major house in the region. Solace must have taken advantage of the lull. They're launching a full-scale offensive. We're cut off. Completely."
Astra's mind spun.
This wasn't bad.
This was collapse.
He exhaled slowly, voice level.
"Set the castle to high alert. I want siege preparations underway immediately."
Seif nodded.
"Send messengers to every nearby town. To Logistics HQ. The bishops must be informed. Now."
He turned, gaze sharp as bladeglass.
"Lord Seif—you'll oversee fortifications it is your castle after all. Reinforce the walls, secure the inner yard, prepare for sustained assault. Shroud—activate the old relays. Deploy every trap, every trick you've got left to stall Solace."
Shroud nodded without a word.
"Specter. Tenor. You're with me. We will send guerrilla squads through the valley passes. Fast, quiet. Set up traps, sabotage paths, scout enemy movements. I want eyes in every canyon. Our main forces will reinforce the town perimeter and prepare to hold Velhor."
All four bowed again.
No protest.
No hesitation.
Astra turned to Merry, standing quiet behind him.
"Sound the alarms. Notify every platoon commander. I want every soldier prepared."
She vanished like smoke.
The chamber emptied.
Orders echoed down the stone halls. Steel rang in readiness. Somewhere, softly, the war drums began.
Astra stood alone for a moment.
Torchlight flickered over his night-sky armor, shadows crawling like memories across his shoulders.
He looked up through the narrow, arched windows.
The stars were there.
He had two days.
Just great.
The alarm blared through Castle Velhor, a low, droning wail that rattled stone and bone alike.
Astra exhaled, annoyed more by the timing than the sound itself. He'd hoped for just a bit more time—to study, to refine his domain spells, to breathe. But of course, fate had other plans. It always did.
Strangely, he wasn't surprised.
Not because of some instinct or precognition. No, Astra had long accepted that nothing in his life had ever been normal. His first kiss? Chaotic. His first battle? Cataclysmic. His first time touching mana nearly shattered him. And now his first deployment—already spiraling into a full-blown siege.
It wasn't intuition. It was just the pattern of his life.
He didn't know whether to laugh or curse the heavens.
So he sighed and stepped out into the hall.
Chaos had taken hold. Soldiers dashed to their stations. Armor clinked, voices barked orders, and squads assembled in urgent clusters. Runners sped past him, scrolls and commands clutched tight in their fists. The air stank of oil, sweat, and rising tension.
And yet, Astra had nothing to do.
Not directly, at least. His orders had already been given. Platoons were dispatched. Scouts sent through the crags of Death Valley—the only passage the enemy could cross at this section of the border. It was a grim place, steeped in legend.
They said the God of Death once walked through it.
They said any soul who died there would know eternal peace.
Astra's lips curled into a dry smile."Well, then. Plenty of souls should find peace soon."
He turned, cloak trailing like spilled ink, and made his way toward the ramparts. To oversee, to prepare.To wait for war.
Hours passed, and Castle Velhor transformed.
What was once a resting fortress became a living engine of war.
Siege engines were hauled into place—massive crossbow trebuchets, arcane mana blasters, reinforced ballistae enchanted with piercing glyphs. Teams of enchanters moved like a current through the halls, reactivating old wards and laying fresh enchantments along the battlements. Crates of weapons were cracked open, cleaned, and distributed. Barricades reinforced. Paths cleared. Traps laid.
Platoons were already in motion.
Eight in total.
Two from Astra's command. Two from Specter's. Four under Tenor. Each assigned to strategic passes, ambush points, and border valleys. Each prepared for high-risk scouting or delay-and-distract missions. Ghost units slipping into enemy approach paths. Patrols doubled. Shadow scouts sent ahead.
The town beyond the fortress had been mobilized too—converted into a military staging ground, command posts rising in former markets, signal towers built overnight.
Lord Seif orchestrated it all with grim precision, strategy unrolling like a black banner across maps and corridors. And Astra—watching it unfold—couldn't help but feel awe.
The sheer scale of it.
Castle Velhor was just one minor fortress on one threadbare line of defense. And even here—at the edge of the greater war—armies moved like tides, cities readied themselves like beasts, and weapons ancient and terrible were drawn from vaults.
And this… this wasn't even a true large-scale deployment.
Elsewhere, Astra knew, entire smaller realms were burning. Saints clashed with saints. Angels fought devils beneath shattered skies. Duels capable of sundering landscapes were already being fought—where Rank Fours, Fives, even Sixes shaped the course of history.
This was just a mortal war.
A local battle.
And yet, it was massive to him. He sighed as he wandered off
Astra sat atop one of Velhor's towers, perched on the slate-gray roof beneath the star-flooded sky.
a day and half had already passed
From here, the vastness of the fortress stretched out before him—walls crawling with movement, dark banners fluttering in the wind, gold-stitched ouroboros glinting alongside House Vela's iron-gray standard. The city below still buzzed like a disturbed hive, every soldier moving with purpose. Yet up here, above it all, Astra found a rare stillness.
Shadows coiled quietly around him, loyal and calm, like obedient hounds awaiting command.
His expression was unreadable—equal parts awe, fear, and disbelief.
They gave him command.
The angels—those divine beings who saw time like a map and lives like pawns—knew exactly who he was: a street-rat orphan, a child of Duskfall's gutter. And yet they handed him a castle, a town, and ten thousand souls.
Sure, he had a mythical core. A Rank Two prodigy, marked by both shadow and night.
But he wasn't ready.
And now, with dawn looming and an invasion hours away, the weight was pressing in.
Still… this calm—this high, cool perch under the stars—it was a comfort. If he was fated to die, then let it be here. Not in some damp, forgotten hole. Not in the shadows. But under the open sky, beneath his dominion.
He smiled faintly at the thought and summoned his sword.
It appeared in a pulse of dusklight: a longer-than-average bastard sword, its design striking. The hilt gleamed gold, the grip carved of polished ebony. But the blade—ah, the blade—was abyssal steel. Void-forged and star-tempered, it hummed with a soundless madness. Elegant in its simplicity, terrifying in its presence. A sword made for a shadow prince. Rank three, it was meant to hold all the weight of his powers and domain, its enchantments also empowered him further
there were four
"Of the shadows" An enchantment that made him stronger in shadows
"Kiss of fire" this one made the blade extra durable and resistant to heat
"To the stars" one that made the abyssal steel heel under the stars and empower it somehow, a marvel of mana engineering as astra tried to figure it out to no avail.
and the final one
Abyssal Blade, this blade was made from the abyss itself, Inflicts madness discomfort and fear upon an area as well as making the user more resistant to such attacks.
Truly a powerful weapon beyond what he'd asked for.
He remembered the day he'd received it—commissioned from Saint Incar himself. The saint hadn't asked for coin or anything, but for something stranger: should Astra survive long enough, he was to bring Incar a single shard of any star-metal, a rare type of ore even angels struggle to find.
Strange. But Astra had agreed. As always, he had no real choice.
His thoughts fractured as a distant horn blared.
He rose instantly, eyes narrowing as he spotted the returning formations. He counted—quickly, carefully.
Six platoons.
Only six.
His heart clenched. "It's war. People die. Relax," he muttered, forcing calm into his voice. But he was already climbing down, boots striking stone as he descended into the situation hall.
The chamber was dim and tense.
Jessa Mayne stood at the center, her armor torn and stained with blood and ash. Dirt crusted her cheek. Her arm was wrapped tight with makeshift bandages. A veteran bruised by a brutal night.
"My prince," she said, bowing quickly. "Commanders."
Astra's breath caught in his throat.
Jessa was a formidable fighter. For her to return in that state—
"It's bad," she said.
A silence fell.
"The Solace Peacekeepers are here."
The words dropped like lead.
Astra froze. So did everyone else.
The Peacekeepers—an elite battalion forged from Solace's deadliest operatives, veterans of ten wars and two divine campaigns. Not just soldiers, but monsters in human skin.
"We lost two platoons. Tenor's and Spectre's. Minor losses in ours as well. The ambushes worked. We stalled them. We hit hard. But they're coming. They were hot on our tail before retreating as we entered city grounds."
Her voice faltered.
"At least twenty-six thousand strong."
Astra swallowed. His stomach sank like stone.
Ten thousand versus twenty-six.
Lord Seif was steady. "We still have the fortress. Ample supplies. It's not unwinnable."
"True," Spectre added. "Let them come. They're the ones on a timer."
"How long do we have?" Astra asked.
"With the damage we dealt… a day and a half. Maybe one day at most. Half, if they rush."
Gods.
"Then we follow the plan," he said at last. "Castle on high alert. All units rest and recover. Trap the outer city edges—layer the walls and activate the mana spikes and shadow snares."
He looked to Seif and nodded.
"We'll hold the city perimeter as long as we can. Then fall back, methodically. Force them to overextend. Make them bleed for every step. When the lines collapse, we either fall into the castle and bombard them from above or go all out and wreak havoc, time will tell."
A trap within a trap and option. An old fortress strategy. But if it worked…
Assignments were restated:
—Astra and Spectre would command the eastern and northern fronts—where the enemy's advance would strike hardest.—Seif and Tenor would anchor the west and south, reinforcing and flanking as needed.—Shroud would remain within Velhor's keep, coordinating relays, shadow pulses, and reinforcements.—Merry and the adjutants would handle communications, keeping the castle's core alive and connected.
It was a good plan.
And it had to be enough.
Astra stood tall as the meeting broke, the torchlight catching on his dark armor.
"We hold this castle," he said, voice steady, "as it has always been held. I won't disgrace House Vela. Or House Shadow on my first assignment."
He looked upward.
The stars blinked silently overhead.
"And they're watching."
He smiled faintly.
"I wont fail under the Stars"
"Summon all companies."
Astra stepped into the torchlit courtyard, wind rustling through his curls, his star-forged armor glinting with fragments of constellations—each plate a shard of night sky stitched into steel. Before him stood ten thousand soldiers, shoulder to shoulder—a sea of iron and obsidian, wielding weapons of every form.
They hailed from every corner of Shadow's dominion: veterans, nobles, lowborn killers, elite knights under Vela's banner, and arcanists cloaked in mana-threaded robes. Some bore the crescent moon, others the coiled ouroboros of House Shadow. Siege engines loomed behind them. The city walls were already manned. Above, the stars burned with quiet fury.
Silence hung, tense and electric. All eyes fixed on him.
Astra descended the blackstone stairs—slowly, methodically. His cape billowed like smoke. At the base, the shadows curled around his feet like obedient hounds. As he extended his tyrannical will, those who wielded shadow felt the shift—a tightening, a hum in their bones. Even the stars above seemed to burn brighter.
He stood still—young, beautiful, terrifying in the way only those touched by fate can be.
Then, his voice rang out laced with his pure will and dense mana. Not shouted—clear. Sharp. Measured. And absolute.
"Brothers. Sisters. Shadows."
"Tonight, we do not merely stand at the edge of war. We stand at the edge of a story. Our legend."
"You see ten thousand beside you. But I see more. I see the wrath of forgotten bloodlines. I see the heirs of the Umbral Plains. The claws of the abyss. The children of Umbra herself"
"I know some of you consider me an outsider, and to those I say, What right do you have?, I am of Umbra and Noctis, the blood of shadow runs through me just like it runs through your lords."
Many eyes turned angry and zealous, only mortals of divine lineages were allowed to and even dared to call the gods by their actual names.
He stepped forward.
"They say twenty-six thousand march upon us—the famed Peacekeepers. And they believe us outnumbered. They believe us doomed, a strategic fortress thats undermanned"A pause. A smile—dark and precise."Let them think it."
"Because I know something they do not. We are not men and women clinging to walls, praying the storm passes. No. We are not some rabble beneath banners. No…"
He raised his sword—golden hilt, void-black blade—and pointed it to the heavens.
"We are chosen. Let them come. I welcome it."
The blade caught the starlight. Shadows rippled outward.
"Each of you, born beneath the veil of dusk—chosen by the dominions of Shadow and now Night. We do not beg fate—we demand of it."
"This is my vow: under my stars my domain, no soul dies forgotten. No warrior dies in vain. We do not fight for riches or glory—there will be none. Not here. No. We fight for survival. For prestige. For the favor of mana itself."
The crowd stirred. Weapons shifted. Breath quickened. Mana flickered through their veins like awakening fire.
"You were not gathered by chance. You were summoned—to war, to legend, to immortality."
Astra turned, slowly, deliberately, sword now pointed toward the looming walls.
"They come with banners and golden lies. But we are Shadow. Born in silence. And we scream in war."
He looked into their eyes. One by one—archers, knights, arcanists, ghostwalkers, steelborn.
"So fight—not just to live. Fight to etch your name into the stars."
He pressed the blade to his chest.
"We will not run. We will not hide. I was born to command this night.""And I will hold this castle—or let my myth end under the sky that birthed me."
Then he raised the sword high—voice thunderous now, charged with celestial weight:
His eyes shining like the very stars above.
"UNDER MY STARS—WE. DO. NOT. FALL!"
The courtyard erupted.
Ten thousand auras ignited like a sunrise of steel and shadow. Mana surged—black, gold, crimson, violet, and white. The earth trembled beneath their unified will.
Commanders saluted. Specter grinned like a wolf. Seif gave a solemn bow. Tenor slammed his weapon into the stone. Even the shadows stood straighter.
Astra spun the sword once—then pointed toward the gates.
"TO POSITIONS! LET THEM COME!"
And the armies of Shadow moved—one living, divine machine. Not born of fear.
But of fire.
The stars above pulsed.
As the soldiers moved out, Astra veered from the main flow, striding toward his designated command—the 20th Platoon.
He was to act as a free-range strike commander, tasked with seeking out powerful Rank Threes and bringing them to heel. It was a lonely, daunting assignment—one born of trust, but also isolation.
And yet, the Peacekeepers had the audacity to attack at night.
"They must not know who's leading," he scoffed under his breath.
He walked alongside Specter toward the outer castle walls, the torchlight catching on their armor as soldiers stepped aside to salute and bow. Their presence commanded awe—Astra in his starbound armor, Specter like some legend given breath.
"My, what an excellent speech," Specter drawled with a crooked grin. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you grew up noble."
Astra smirked. "What man doesn't dream of such moments?"
"That's true," Specter laughed, a low, rasping chuckle like gravel underfoot. They approached the central command node, the place where their paths would split.
"Alright, my prince," Specter said, turning. "This is where we part. May your backstar shine ever so darkly."
Astra's lips twitched. He knew Specter's true might. A Rank Three pinnacle combatant—perhaps even stronger than Astra himself. He wielded a Domain too, though Astra had never seen it. Only rumors: a crucible of steel and fire. A furnace.
"That it will," Astra replied. "I'll see you inside."
Their eyes met for a brief, silent moment—understanding, grim and unsaid. Then they parted.
Astra climbed the black-marble steps to the outer city walls. Alone. As he reached the top, he looked out and saw the flickering torches of the Peacekeeper encampment stretching across the hills like a hungry tide. The banners of House Solace flew at the forefront—black, with a skeletal Jolly Roger.
"Pirates in priest's robes," Astra muttered. "How fitting."
Both pirates and Solace worshiped death—one with chaos, the other with doctrine. He wondered when he'd get his own standard. But he knew: he didn't need one. His stars were enough. When he pointed, the battlefield would illuminate with starlight.
Soldiers lined the wall beside him, some tense, some whispering, others merely staring ahead. Astra leaned against the stone parapet, calm despite the distant drums.
He expected the usual—war cries, shouting, noise.
But instead, the Peacekeepers chanted.
The language was old. Dead. Each word twisted the air, digging into the bones of every soldier present like the claws of some forgotten god. Fear rippled through the ranks like a cold wave.
"Vesper would've loved this," Astra muttered, smirking as he let mana flow through him—burning away the fear. He stood tall, unshaken.
Around him, men and women looked to him for reassurance. For meaning. He could see it in their eyes.
"Fools," he thought bitterly. "What am I to do? Hold your hands and promise you'll live?"
So many of them would die.
"Damn," he whispered. "Is this what Odin meant? This... selfishness?"
Before he could reflect more, he felt it—a mana spike. Multiple.
Incoming.
Bombardment.
Explosions rocked the sky, flaring bright like false stars. Astra's expression tightened. He knew Shroud—his bombardment commander—was waiting. But the enemy had fired first.
"Brace!" someone shouted.
Soldiers slammed themselves against the enchanted marble walls. Shields raised. Bodies low.
To Astra's assessment, only Rank Three firepower could even begin to scratch these walls.
Unfortunately, the enemy had plenty of that.
"Of course they do," he muttered, kneeling and drawing his blade. Explosions echoed on all sides now, constant. The siege had begun in earnest.
Looking out, he saw the enemy's battalions begin to march in rhythmic, synchronized steps. Their armor—sleek, bone-white and grey—gleamed like polished ivory. Designed to mimic skeletons.
"They look incredible," Astra admitted, half annoyed. "Sleek bastards."
Siege engines crawled forward, massive and reinforced.
He felt mana signatures behind him swell.
"FIRE!"
The castle's counter-bombardment responded, launching arcs of mana-charged destruction across the valley.
"UP!" Astra barked. "Destroy those engines!"
Then a thought stabbed into him, quiet and sharp.
"I've... never really killed anyone. Not directly."
He frowned.
"How will it feel?"
He knew war wasn't like in the stories. It wasn't clean. It wasn't noble. It was screaming and burning and men begging for mothers they forgot they had.
"Fortify your mind," Astra whispered to himself, gripping his sword tighter. "And harden your heart."
He smiled, darkly.
"To topple lives, to burn dreams—ally and foe alike. This is my inheritance after all. My true curse."
Everything has a price.
And tonight, he would begin paying it in blood.
Astra raised his hand—black lances of shadow spiraled into the air and crashed down with the speed of comets.
One of the towering siege engines, already groaning under pressure, was struck by both his attack and a direct bombardment. It erupted in flame and splinters, screams ringing out as Peacekeepers were flung from its heights like ragdolls. Fire spread fast—too fast—and the fire mages of the Shadow Dominion seized it like a gift from war itself, bending flame into weapons and launching it back across the field.
Astra didn't fire anything star-forged. Not yet.
He couldn't afford to make himself a bigger target than he already was.
But some of the enemy siege towers still made it to the wall, their ramps slamming down with heavy thuds.
"That was fast," Astra thought grimly.
The outer walls lacked the overwhelming firepower of the inner citadel. This phase of the defense was meant to delay—not to win.
"Meet them head-on!" he barked. Officers relayed the command immediately. Runners and voicecasters spread it across the lines. Troops flooded the ramparts, bracing for the charge.
Astra summoned his helmet.
The starlit plume flared into being, glimmering like a fragment of the cosmos. A beacon.
"Well," he muttered behind the helm, "now everyone definitely knows who I am."
His eyes swept the walls, searching for worthy mana signatures—targets worth the pain.
A sudden whiz snapped past his cheek.
An arrow.
Close. Too close.
He smiled. "This is gonna be bad."
Before he could act, mana surged—fierce and fast—and a BOOM thundered across the night.
Astra was thrown into the sky like a leaf in a gale.
The city wall behind him erupted—stone shattered, flame surged, and dust clouded the air. Soldiers screamed. Rubble rained. A chunk of the fortification was simply… gone.
Astra twisted midair, shadows wrapping around his limbs like loyal snakes. He directed them downward—breaking his fall and cushioning the soldiers beneath him.
He landed hard, rolling once and rising immediately, mana pulsing through his limbs.
"What kind of firepower…" he thought, shaken.
The answer came in the form of a wave.
Hundreds—maybe more—flooded through the breach.
Rank Ones and Twos.
His aura spiked.
And the shadows answered.
They erupted around him like jaws, impaling the first wave in a chorus of wet crunches and shrieks. Ten were dead before they even reached him—slain in an instant, their lives snuffed out like guttering flames.
Astra paused.
It felt strange.
Too easy.
Unfair, even, a sense of vertigo assaulted him.
"Such a pity," he muttered as more surged toward him.
The next rank twos were braver. Smarter.
But it didn't matter.
The first swung wide—Astra ducked, sliced through the hamstring, and came up in an arc that cleaved the next's head clean off. The third lunged. Astra buried his blade in the tendon-slashed man's skull and twisted, using the body as cover. He blocked the next strike with one hand and drove a foot forward.
A lance of shadow erupted from his heel.
It impaled the attacker through the gut and launched him ten feet into a house with a sickening crunch.
The soldiers began to falter.
"Rank three battle strength!" someone screamed.
Panic bloomed.
Astra's shadows flickered behind him like the wings of some abyssal bird, rising taller, sharper.
That was when he felt it.
Knights.
Several of them.
Stronger mana signatures surged through the breach. Their steps heavier. Controlled.
"Finally," Astra breathed. His true targets had arrived.
Behind him, soldiers from the inner castle charged to plug the breach—reinforcements racing to stabilize the broken line.
But Astra didn't turn to help them.
He stepped forward, sword in hand, as three knights burst through the smoke—each clad in pale white armor, sleek and symbol-bound. One wielded a crescent glaive, another a flaming flail, the last a long spear crackling with green lightning.
Astra's smile was cold.
"Let's see what you're worth," he muttered.