The fortress gates loomed behind Leo like a promise he could no longer keep. Dawn's light painted the broken stones in crimson and gold, a reminder that even victory bore scars.
Leo's machete hung at his side, its runes dull but solid. Every inch of that blade had tasted blood and shadow. Every scratch was a story he wasn't ready to tell.
Kara moved beside him, her rifle slung low. Her grin had sharpened into something feral. "So," she drawled, "we're actually trusting these Council bastards to help us?"
Leo's jaw tightened. "We don't have much choice," he growled. "The darkness is bigger than any one fortress."
Aícha approached, her staff's runes glowing faintly in the dawn's light. Her face was drawn with exhaustion, but her eyes burned with determination. "We need every ally we can get," she said softly. "Even them."
Jarek stood at the edge of the rampart, his arms folded across his chest. "And what happens when they betray us?" he rumbled. "Because they will."
Leo's hand clenched around his machete. "Then we remind them what happens when you betray the people who stand with you," he said.
A hush fell. The fortress seemed to hold its breath.
Beyond the walls, the Council's envoy approached—a thin column of riders bearing tattered banners. The lead horse carried a figure in silver armor, its crest marked by the Council's symbol: a sun half-obscured by shadow.
Leo's gut twisted. The last time he'd seen that symbol, it had been on the banners of the Pale King's army.
Kara spat on the ground. "Looks like a bunch of well-fed vultures to me," she muttered.
Aícha's staff glowed brighter. "Give them a chance," she said, though her voice trembled. "If there's a spark of decency left in them, we need it now."
Leo's eyes never left the lead rider. "We'll see," he said.
The envoy reined in before the fortress gates, the leader dismounting with practiced grace. His silver armor was dented but polished, his dark hair tied back in a warrior's knot. His eyes were sharp, the kind that weighed every word before speaking.
"Commander Dormien," he said, his voice smooth but brittle. "I am Sir Renard of the Council's Third Watch. I come in the name of unity."
Leo's machete stayed at his side, but his stance was iron. "Unity's a pretty word," he said. "But I've seen what your Council calls unity. And I've seen the bodies that came after."
Sir Renard's mouth twitched. "A fair point," he said. "But we face a darkness that threatens us all. The Fallen Star grows stronger every night. We need to stand together—or we will all fall."
A hush settled. Kara's rifle never wavered. Jarek's axe gleamed. Aícha's staff pulsed like a heartbeat.
Leo's voice was cold iron. "Then stand with us," he said. "Prove that you're not just here to claim what we've bled for."
Sir Renard's gaze met Leo's, unflinching. "Words won't prove that," he said. "Only deeds."
Leo's hand tightened on his machete. "Then let's see some deeds."
The fortress's courtyard buzzed with uneasy energy, the survivors and Council soldiers mingling like oil and water. Every glance felt like a challenge, every word a potential spark.
Leo paced among the defenders, his machete at his side, eyes sharp. His breath came slow, controlled—a man waiting for the knife in the dark.
Kara lounged against a wall, her rifle resting across her knees. "Boss," she drawled, "these Council bastards are looking at us like we're the real enemy."
Leo's jaw tightened. "Maybe to them, we are," he muttered.
Aícha moved between clusters of soldiers, her staff's glow a small comfort in the twilight. "We can't fight the darkness if we're at each other's throats," she said, her voice tired but firm.
Jarek's silhouette loomed at the gate, his arms crossed, his axe glinting in the torchlight. "Doesn't matter," he rumbled. "If they turn on us, we finish it."
Leo's gaze flicked to Sir Renard, who stood at the center of the courtyard, conferring with his lieutenants. The man's silver armor caught the torchlight like a blade. His voice was low, but his gestures sharp—commanding.
Kara's grin was a knife. "Look at him," she hissed. "He's planning something."
Leo's eyes narrowed. "I know," he growled.
A sudden hush fell as Sir Renard raised his hand. "Commander Dormien," he called. "A word."
Leo stepped forward, his machete sheathed but his posture wary. "Speak," he said.
Sir Renard's gaze was steady. "The Council has agreed to support your fight," he said. "But only if we can secure this fortress as a base."
Leo's heart froze. "Secure?" he spat. "You mean control."
Sir Renard's jaw tensed. "It's for the greater good," he said. "We can't risk this place falling into darkness again."
Kara's laughter was a blade in the dark. "Greater good," she mocked. "We've heard that before."
Jarek's axe scraped the ground. "Leo," he rumbled, "say the word."
Aícha's staff glowed bright, the runes flaring. "Wait," she pleaded. "There has to be another way."
Leo's breath came like fire. "You want to control this fortress?" he growled. "You'll have to go through us."
Sir Renard's eyes hardened. "So be it," he said.
Swords hissed from sheaths. The courtyard became a crucible of light and shadow.
Leo's machete leapt to his hand. "No mercy," he snarled.
Kara's rifle swung up, eyes blazing. "No surrender."
Jarek's axe whistled through the air. "No darkness."
Aícha's staff flared, her voice a whisper of defiance. "No fear."
And in the heart of the fortress, the alliance fractured.
Because even among supposed allies, the darkness had many faces.
Steel clashed against steel, the courtyard ablaze with torchlight and chaos. Shadows twisted across the stones, dancing to the rhythm of battle.
Leo's machete blurred in his hands, every swing a promise that no one would take this fortress without paying in blood. Sparks flew as his blade met a Council sword, runes flaring bright in the gloom.
Kara's rifle barked, muzzle flash strobing like lightning. "Die, you bastards!" she howled, her voice raw with fury.
Jarek's axe rose and fell, each strike a thunderclap. "No mercy!" he roared, his voice a drumbeat in the storm.
Aícha stood at Leo's back, her staff glowing like a star. Runes spun in the air, weaving shields of light and arcs of energy that deflected arrows and blades alike. Her face was pale, sweat streaking her brow, but her eyes burned with iron.
Sir Renard's forces pressed hard, their silver armor reflecting the torchlight like a wall of knives. "For the Council!" they cried, voices cold and precise.
Leo's jaw clenched. "For the people!" he shouted back. His machete carved a path through the press, each strike a promise that he would not bow.
A Council captain lunged, his sword a silver blur. Leo met him with a roar, their blades clashing in a burst of sparks. The captain's face was a mask of hate, his eyes empty.
"You're the real darkness," he spat. "Traitor."
Leo's blade found its mark, slicing through steel and flesh. The captain crumpled, his sword clattering to the stones.
Blood ran like rivers across the courtyard, pooling around bodies that had once called each other allies.
Kara's laughter was a ragged edge. "Bastards never stood a chance," she rasped, reloading with shaking hands.
Jarek's axe whistled through the air, splitting a Council shield in two. "No surrender!" he bellowed.
Aícha's staff blazed, runes spinning faster than ever. "No darkness!" she cried, her voice a hymn against the night.
Leo's heart pounded, his breath ragged. "No fear," he roared.
And in that moment, the fortress became a crucible—burning away everything but the will to stand.
Sparks danced on the wind. Shadows fled before the light.
Because even among traitors and blood, Leo and his people refused to bow.
The courtyard stank of blood and smoke, the aftermath of battle carved into the stone like a fresh wound. Torches sputtered in the wind, their light casting long, uncertain shadows.
Leo stood amid the wreckage, his machete dark with blood that wasn't all from the enemy. Every breath felt like iron in his lungs.
Kara limped to his side, her grin gone, replaced by a cold exhaustion. "We held," she said, her voice a broken whisper.
Leo's jaw tightened. "We did," he said. His gaze swept the courtyard: bodies strewn like broken promises, Council soldiers and fortress defenders alike.
Jarek's axe dripped red, his shoulders heaving with effort. "They came here to kill us," he rumbled. "And they paid the price."
Aícha knelt beside a fallen soldier, her staff's runes dim. Tears streaked her cheeks, but her voice was steady. "They were supposed to stand with us," she whispered. "We needed them."
Leo's eyes burned. "They chose their side," he growled. "And now we choose ours."
A hush fell as the survivors gathered, drawn by the weight of his words. Faces bruised and bloodied, eyes hollow but unbroken.
Leo raised his machete, the rune along its edge glowing faintly. "We stand," he said. "No matter who turns on us. No matter what darkness comes."
Kara's rifle thumped against her shoulder. "No mercy," she spat.
Jarek's axe gleamed in the dying light. "No surrender," he growled.
Aícha's staff trembled, but her voice was iron. "No darkness."
Leo's heart thundered. "No fear," he finished.
A flicker of movement caught his eye—a shadow at the edge of the courtyard. He turned, blade ready.
A figure emerged from the gloom, tall and robed, its face hidden beneath a hood. The air around it pulsed with a cold energy that set Leo's teeth on edge.
Aícha's staff flared. "Who are you?" she demanded.
The figure's voice was a whisper of silk and poison. "I am the Herald," it said. "The Fallen Star rises, Commander Dormien. And this fortress will be its first feast."
Leo's grip tightened. "Not while I still draw breath," he snarled.
The Herald's laughter was a blade in the night. "We shall see," it hissed.
And as the darkness gathered once more, Leo's heart burned with a single truth:
They would not bow.