The last chorus cultivator screamed as he fled, fading into the ridge.
Cyril stood over it, chest still heavy from what he just did. Steam leaked from his skin, and the taste of burnt air stayed on his tongue. The Flow inside him didn't just answer—it lashed out.
Violently at that.
Miren watched him with unreadable eyes. Not afraid. Not comforted. Just calculating.
"You just tore apart a squad's resonance signature like it was paper," she said quietly.
"They'll feel that for miles."
"Then we'd better get their first."
Right after he said this the sky cracked open with gold.
Not dawn.
Nor natural.
A beam from the heavens sliced through the low clouds—clean, immense, and absolute. It swept across the landscape like a god's accusing finger. Traversing over tree's and shattered stone.
Cyril flinched.
Miren didn't.
"They're not scouting anymore," she said, voice low.
"That's the spearhead."
They crouched down into the shadow of a ridgeline, eyes still lifted.
The Sunvault arrived.
It didn't descend—it hovered.
A fortress of obsidian alloy and radiant crystal suspended by a force older than science, older than Flow. Underneath it, a forest of thin cables hung like roots from a floating tree. Some dragged on the ground, others pulsed with energy, anchoring the skyship to the heavens.
Cyril blinked.
"That thing looks like a cathedral high off relic fumes and maybe a Red Bull."
"It is a cathedral. At least to them."
***
Above – Vaultbridge
The bridge of the Sunvault was silent, reverent.
A tall man stared at the many factions on the ground, like a god surveying his creations. In a ship where even silence held its breath.
Commander Serent Vale; One of Sunvault's Five Heavenly Commanders, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His long golden coat shimmered faintly—inscribed with Flow-filament in a pattern reserved only for Vaultmarked officers. His eyes glowed with the Vaultmark: a horizontal sigil seared into both irises, proof of his soul's connection to Dominion command.
Behind him, junior officers controlled Lightflow channels. Massive resonance rings turned slowly behind reinforced crystal glass—engine-work of impossible age. The ship didn't fly through wind or storm.
It flew through Will.
Vale's voice, calm as a blade's edge:
"Deploy the Skybinders. I want a clean passage burned through Braithborne's central ridge."
A junior officer hesitated.
"But sir, there are still nobles in that position—heirs of Braithborne—"
Vale turned his head by a fraction.
"I said, burn through them."
The officer bowed.
"Yes, Commander."
Outside, three pylons detached from the ship's underbelly and descended—hovering. Each one emitting a low pulse, a moment later, runes flared to life in a perfect circle.
Then the world ignited.
A beam of silent, heatless fire eviscerated the cliff.
***
Groundside Again
Cyril and Miren saw the flash before they heard stone crack.
The ridge—once filled with Braithborne flags—was now flattened. Vibrant tree's disintegrated and watchtowers vanished like they were never there. Smoke rose, flowing sideways.
Cyril watched in awe and disgust.
"They're not taking ground anymore," he muttered.
"They're erasing it."
Miren didn't look away.
"That's the cost of dominion," she said.
"You don't win land. You rewrite it, make it yours."
Beneath the Sunvault's shadow, a strike unit advanced.
Mirror-plated armor reflected the shifting Flow. Two dozen soldiers moved in formation like clockwork. In their center walked a Skybinder—face veiled, hands glowing with trailing Flowscript that danced like white-hot wire.
She didn't speak.
She didn't look at those she passed.
Where her steps landed, the very earth grew glasslike beneath her. Even the air bent away.
Ahead, a Braithborne resistance line broke in seconds—defenders screaming as Sunvault blades cleaved through them without hesitation or sound.
No calls.
No war cries.
Just death.
Cyril and Miren ran low along the terrain, smoke rising around them. Cyril's arm sparked again—his Flow flaring in protest.
He gritted his teeth.
"It's reacting to them. To that ship in the sky."
Miren didn't stop moving.
"It should. Everything down here is afraid of it."
"It's not fear." Cyril shook his head.
"Its warning me. Like it knows that thing is bad news."
They reached a final ridge—and there it was.
The lip of Veinscar.
A gash in the world, the edges still charred, still weeping Flowlight from the shardfall impact. But between them and the crater, there was a structure—one of Sunvault's command nodes, a massive pylon pulsing slowly.
Like a heartbeat.
Dozens of soldiers were stationed at its perimeter.
Cyril stared at it, breathing out slowly.
He stared a moment longer, then sudden realization bloomed behind his smirk.
"I think I just found our way in."
Miren's head snapped toward him.
"Into what?"
He didn't blink.
"The war."