The Church cannon groaned into position on a ridge overlooking the southern desert, its barrel gleaming with dark mana seals, the crest of Saintess Yidali etched along its plated frame.
Soldiers in red ceremonial armor stepped forward, their movements precise and ritualistic. In their gloved hands: a large, swaddled object. At first glance, it looked like a child, bundled in white cloth, nestled as if sleeping.
But inside the linen was no infant.
It was an artifact.
Cursed. Vile. Ancient.
A heart. Petrified and black as volcanic glass. Still slick with congealed mana. Its surface pulsed faintly beneath sacramental glyphs and red rosary beads made of bone and obsidian. A tangle of inverted sigils glowed red-gold along its seams. Each beat echoed like thunder caught underwater.
This was El Corazón de la Lluvia Muerta.
The Heart of the Dead Rain.
A relic dredged from a drowned altar.
A weapon made to silence a storm.
The air warped around it.
And then-
It screamed.
A sound like a child's cry. Piercing, ancient, broken.
Not weeping, but grieving.
It cried to lure.
It cried to curse.
It cried to kill.
A special gift, the Inquisition whispered, for the so-called Heretical Mother of Storms.
But the Church wasn't the only one with eyes on the battlefield.
A flash of blue cut through the smog; Azura, the hawk, wings outstretched against the haze. She landed briefly near the cannon, cocking her head to observe the eerie procession. Her sharp eyes glinted.
And then, with a beat of wings, she soared upward, vanishing into the thick smoke.
Far from the ridge, cloaked in illusion, Alejandro extended his arm. The hawk landed with familiar grace.
They touched foreheads in silent communion.
Then she was gone again, silent as a blessing.
Niegal stepped forward from the brush, watching.
Alejandro's eyes met his.
They didn't need words.
Hand signals flashed: It's time. We strike. Now.
The Church had turned their eyes on an empty camp, baited and bare. Exactly as planned.
From the hills, cloaked magic practitioners began whispering to the earth, to the wind. A low chant stirred the desert sands. Dust spiraled upward, thickening into a ruthless, howling sandstorm. Vision vanished. The sun dimmed. The Church's sight was cut off entirely.
And then the Matteo forces hit.
They moved like lightning. Precision strikes, each blade and spell cast with deadly purpose.
El Léon Negro became a beast- his vow manifest.
He tore through soldiers with blade, gauntlet, and bare hands, disarming the cannon himself. He fought with no mercy, no hesitation. Twenty men fell by his hand alone, screams lost in the roar of sand and thunder.
A father. A husband. A protector.
His wrath was holy.
Back at the cavern beneath the twisted roots of the cypress tree, the wind howled overhead, the air thick with storm-magic. Aurora rocked Esperanza gently, trying to soothe the restless babe.
Then, from the depths of the canyon wall, it began:
A wail.
Not Esperanza's. Another.
It echoed through the stone like a spectral scream, vibrating through the bones of the mountain.
Only two could hear it:
Elena.
And the Behike.
The Behike's eyes widened. She immediately slapped her hands over her ears, murmuring wards under her breath.
But for Elena—it was already too late.
The Corazón had found her.
And it knew her name.
Her scars, those spiraled brands burned into her arms, lit up.
Sparks danced. Mana surged.
The scent of ozone and scorched roses filled the cavern.
Elena's breath caught in her throat.
Her eyes locked on Aurora, who now clutched a shrieking Esperanza to her chest.
Was the child in pain?
Could she hear it too?
Esperanza's cries changed. They rose to something raw, animal, unbearable. She twisted in Aurora's arms like she was being stabbed by sound alone.
The Heart was calling to her bloodline.
Elena reacted instantly. She and the Behike moved as one; a hand raised, casting protective spells around the baby. A shimmering veil of magic fell around her.
Elena kept her other hand up, keeping the wards and sigils that have nearly the entire camp protected.
For just a moment, Esperanza quieted.
But Elena, already weakened from childbirth, her body still healing, was not fast enough.
The Corazón struck.
Her arms steamed.
Her blood boiled.
Her scars split open like lightning-fissures through old stone.
Mana rioted inside her.
Her vision went white. Her eyes and ears bled.
Elena couldn't scream. She could barely breathe.
The Behike turned, casting everything she could, but she couldn't shield both.
She looked at Elena.
Made her choice.
She dropped the ward around the child and lunged toward Elena, hands glowing, heart breaking.
Aurora stared, frozen in horror, as Elena began to burn.
Skin blistering.
Blackening.
Cracking open like overdrawn parchment.
The storm was being torn from her.
The Behike knelt beside her, chanting frantically, but it wasn't working.
Elena's pulse faltered.
Her eyes rolled back.
Her body seized with the force of the overload.
And then-
Silence.
The scream of the Heart stopped.
But the damage remained.
The Behike cried silently, her lips moving in prayer as she tried every rite she knew.
"This is… mana overload," she finally whispered, her voice strangled with guilt. "A curse. Planted. Triggered."
She looked at Elena's scorched arms, already ruined. Her skin flaking like charcoal, steaming blood seeping from every pore. The bare bone poking through skin.
This was no accident.
This was a trap.
The cavern descended into chaos.
Children sobbed, covering their eyes and ears.
The elderly huddled together, whispering prayers in half-forgotten tongues.
Healers stood helpless, heads bowed.
Aurora knelt beside her sister-in-law, unable to touch, unable to speak.
And in Aurora's arms Esperanza wailed.
High. Piercing. Grieving.
As though some part of her, newborn though she was, understood.
Her mother was burning alive.
And she could do nothing but cry.