In a small house near the river, a boy presses his forehead to the cold glass of his window. The night is quiet except for the faint rush of water, but his eyes are fixed, unblinking, on the dark surface. He doesn't move, doesn't even seem to hear the floor creak behind him.

"Why are you still up?" his mother's voice snaps, sharp with fatigue and frustration. "You need to sleep now—we have a lot to do in the morning."

The boy doesn't answer.

Her irritation turns into a frown. "Did you hear me?"

She walks closer, ready to scold him again, but as she follows his gaze her breath catches. From the river's black mirror, shapes begin to rise—first just ripples, then slick backs, then glistening claws. One. Three. A dozen. More.

Her voice trembles. "Gods…"

The boy still doesn't move, his small hands gripping the windowsill.

In an instant, she grabs him, tearing him away from the glass. "No looking—hold on to me!"

He starts to protest, but her arms tighten as she races through the narrow hallway. The floorboards groan under her pounding steps.

Behind them, the night fills with wet, guttural growls.

She bursts through the back door into the cold air, running toward the old root cellar half-buried in the earth. The child clings to her neck, now silent, his face pressed against her shoulder.

The sound of water slapping against stone grows louder. Something is climbing the bank.

She doesn't look back. She throws open the cellar door, shoving him inside, and follows, slamming it shut just as the first heavy thud lands on the porch.

Screams erupt before the first alarm bell can ring.

A baker in the market square freezes mid-shout as a shadow lunges from between the soldiers—black claws slashing through wood and flesh alike. Crates spill fruit into the street, the bright colors rolling across cobblestones now splattered with blood.

At the eastern gate, the captain shoves through the panicking soldiers. "Shut the gate! Shut—" His order dies as he sees it. The massive doors stand wide open, hinges dripping with fresh blood instead of oil. A pair of sentries lie crumpled at the threshold, throats torn out.

The eastern wall is chaos.

Corporal Deren grips his spear tighter, boots sliding in the wet stone as he pushes against the flow of retreating guards. "Hold the line! Back to the gate!"

Someone shouts from above. "They're inside! They're already inside!"

Deren's stomach knots. "What do you mean inside? The gates are—"

His words choke as he rounds the corner.

They are open.

Not broken. Not smashed. Just… open. The massive timbers gape like the mouth of some great beast, and beyond them, more shapes pour in from the mist—scaled, hulking, silent but for the soft slap of their feet on wet stone.

"Close them!" Deren bellows, but the winch team is gone. Their posts are empty except for a dropped lantern spilling oil across the platform. The smell is sharp, stinging his nose.

A soldier beside him whispers, "They were supposed to be outside…" as if saying it could change the truth.

Another voice shouts from somewhere up the wall, high and panicked. "The market! They're in the market already!"

Deren's mind races—how? The gates are open, yes, but they would've had to cross half the city in moments. Unless… unless they were already here.

A shadow blurs at the edge of his vision. Something drops from the wall—too fast, too silent. A scream cuts short, followed by the clang of a sword hitting stone. Deren spins, but the alley is empty except for the sprawled body of the man who had been speaking to him moments ago. His throat is gone.

The air is thick now with smoke and the copper tang of blood. Bells ring from three different directions, their uneven rhythm telling him everything—no coordination, no defense.

Across the city, flames begin to spread from rooftop to rooftop, not by accident but with purpose. He catches sight of one figure—a tall woman with blade-like limbs—leaping the gaps between houses, cutting down anyone who flees. Her eyes glint once in the firelight before she's gone.

The old soldier mutters, eyes narrowing. "Gods help us, they knew every alley, every choke point."

And then, like a candle snuffed in the dark, the resistance falters.

Deren fights his way back toward the plaza, only to find the flagstones littered with bodies—soldiers and civilians alike. Above the chaos, the banner of the city hangs torn, its colors drenched and dark.

By the time the fourth bell should ring, there is no one left to pull the rope.

And just like that, the city falls in hours—not days, not weeks. Hours.

Smoke drifts low over the streets. Somewhere beyond the river, the victors are already planting their banners.

---

The council chamber smells faintly of ink and heated wax. The meeting has only just ended, and the representatives of other forces file out in clusters, speaking in low, clipped voices. War maps still sprawl across the long table, their edges curling under the heat of nearby candles.

Velira lingers for a moment, letting the murmurs fade. Her eyes scan the marked battlefronts—the north-east and the west, both bleeding red ink from the enemy's advance.

The west is bad, yes. But the north-east… the north-east is collapsing faster than reports predicted.

She turns as one of the Yosha ministers approaches, bowing slightly. "Lady Velira, the Ashedge forces will be welcomed wherever you choose to deploy. His Majesty thanks you for coming all this way."

Velira nods, but her voice is firm. "Tell him I've decided on the north-east. That's where the enemy is striking hardest."

The minister hesitates. "The west is where most of the high-ranking nobles hold their territories. They—"

"Let the others hold the west," Velira cuts in sharply. "If the northeast falls, there won't be a west left to defend."

From the other side of the chamber, one of her commanders—an older Tier 6 with braided grey hair—steps forward. "My lady, the scouts say the monsters there are… not ordinary. Their vanguard moves like they know the land. Cities fall in hours."

Velira meets his gaze without flinching. "Good. Then we'll see if they know how to fight me."

-----

Above the sprawling expanse of the Watervale Clan's city, the sky darkens—not from clouds, but from the sheer weight of killing intent radiating downward.

Mhazul stands in the air as if the wind itself holds him aloft, his obsidian armor glinting faintly under the dim light. His eyes sweep over the massive city below—not small like a kingdom's capital, but vast, sprawling far beyond the horizon. Clans may only have one city, but that one city is a fortress—a behemoth built on centuries of poured resources, layered wards, and walls that dwarf mountains.

Behind him, the air ripples. One by one, his four commanders take their places in the air. Two are high-level Tier 6s, their presence like storms chained in human form. The other two, middle-level Tier 6s, radiate lethal precision—sharp, focused, unyielding.

And beneath them—five hundred thousand monster soldiers. The ground below is a seething ocean of claws, fangs, and armor, each formation disciplined, not a step out of line. Banners ripple in the wind.

Mhazul lets the silence stretch for a heartbeat, the wind tugging faintly at his black cloak. Then he speaks, voice dropping like a hammer.

"Form the advance ranks. Spread the vanguard wide. I want pressure on every inch of that shield."

"Yes, General." All four bow slightly before vanishing in streaks of light toward their assigned positions.

Below, the disciplined monster army shifts like a single organism. Siege weapons, each the size of small house, lumber forward. Tier 5 commanders bark orders, and the deep thrum of war drums begins to roll across the battlefield like distant thunder.

From the city walls, defenders watch with grim faces.

Mhazul's voice is low, yet it rolls across the battlefield like a tide, carried by power rather than wind.

"Humans," he says, every word dripping with calm certainty. "Before I attack, I will give you a choice. Surrender now and become subordinates of my king… and you will live."

The words hang in the air, almost heavy enough to press on the chest.

Murmurs ripple along the battlements. Archers glance at each other. Spears shift in sweaty palms.

A grizzled guard spits over the wall. "Subordinates to monsters? I'd rather my bones bleach in the sun."

Another snarls, "Let him come—we'll die on our feet, not kneel like dogs."

But for every voice raised in defiance, there are others that stay silent, eyes flickering with doubt.

Then a sharp whistle cuts through the noise.

From the inner court, a surge of water bursts skyward, shimmering under the dim light, spiraling higher and higher until it forms a narrow column that seems to pierce the heavens. At its peak, a figure steps from the torrent as if the water itself bore her weight.

Her armor gleams with a faint blue hue, runes etched along the pauldrons, and her cloak ripples with an enchantment that never touches the wind. In her hand, a spear of pure liquid crystal reforms with each droplet that falls from its length.

The defenders roar in recognition.

"The Clan Leader!" someone shouts, relief cutting through the fear.

"My clan," she says, "will not surrender to monsters."

The water around her churns in response to her words, forming a storm that coils and twists like living serpents. "We are Watervale! Our walls are rivers, our hearts the sea! You may break against us, but you will never claim us."

Her declaration slams into the defenders like a war drum.