The ground rumbled like a bad omen—or a really pissed-off stampede. From miles away, the sound was unmistakable: hooves pounding like thunder, the guttural growls of battle-bred bears shaking the wind. Dalab didn't see what was coming, but damn if they didn't feel it.
And what was coming? Millions—yes, millions—of black and brown bears riding with armored warriors, centaurs in formation, war banners flapping like this was some long-overdue reunion with death.
Dalab needed to get ready. Or panic. Or both. Definitely both.
Up in the hills, Gideon didn't wait for the chaos to knock. He went straight to the only woman who could see through time and trouble like it was yesterday's soup. "Mamá!" he called, jogging into the sacred temple like an anxious kid who'd flunked war class.
Deliah didn't flinch. She was in full meditation mode—legs folded, eyes closed, floating a damn inch off the floor. Because of course she was. She hadn't eaten in months (by choice, mind you), hadn't aged in decades, and still looked like she moonlighted as a goddess when bored.
She raised one graceful hand, giving him the universal 'Hold your horses, I'm doing witch stuff' gesture. Finally, she opened her eyes—deep, ancient things that looked like they'd seen planets born.
"Gideon," she said calmly, voice smooth as honey. "Why dost thou come?"
Gideon was not in the mood for riddles.
"How big is this war?" he asked.
She smiled faintly. "Worry not, thou shalt win."
He groaned. "It is not about victory, Mamá. The Shams—they are coming. We need more fighters. More everything."
Deliah stood, robes flowing like she had her own wind machine. "Fien shall not give thee a single sword," she said, blunt and certain. "But thou knowest what must be done."
That was it. That was her whole advice. Mystic mic drop. She turned back toward the altar like the conversation was over—and in witch-math, it was. Gideon left the temple with a storm in his chest.
He had already betrayed Fien once—stabbed her political back so cleanly it made poets weep. And now? He was considering doing it again. Not because he hated her. Heck, he respected the hell out of her. But respect doesn't win wars. Calculations do. And by every grim tally, Fien was on the losing end of this equation.
So yeah—he was probably gonna betray her again. Maybe not with a blade, but with silence. With inaction. With letting her walk straight into a slaughter while he built something else, something that could maybe save them all.
Dalab's bells were ringing. The city was alert. People shouted in the streets. Armor clanked, centaurs stomped into formation. Somewhere, a bard probably started writing a song about it all.
But Gideon? He just tightened his cloak and headed for the watchtower. Because war was coming and this time, no one was walking away clean.
And in the camp, the air was thick like soup made of sweat, tension, and bear breath. Thousands of warriors, half of them armored to the teeth and the other half literally being bears, stood braced for the call to war. You could hear the shuffle of blades being sharpened, hooves pawing the ground, and some poor bastard trying to psych himself up by muttering "You're a killer, Brovon. A killer" on repeat.
Meanwhile, Gulutel was still in his glorified cage-on-wheels like some war-era trophy no one really wanted to admit they felt guilty about. His eyes were hollow but not defeated. Not yet. Not while hope had a pulse.
Then came Shæz, stone-faced, battle-ready, looking like a whole storm dressed in armor. She stopped by Gulutel, didn't speak, just gave him the classic "It is well" hand gesture. He nodded back, a ghost of gratitude flickering across his face. Then she kicked her horse and rode ahead, pushing through the formation until she reached the front lines where the queen herself waited.
Fien was already there, chatting with General Geleam and surveying the army like it was a chessboard and she was so done losing pawns.
When Shæz arrived, Geleam peeled off—he knew this wasn't his scene. She was here now.
"Still need fucking space?" Fien asked without turning, voice low and laced with just enough sarcasm to sting.
Shæz didn't flinch. Yeah, she needed space. She needed therapy. She needed a vacation with no swords and no doomed friends in cages. But none of that was happening today. Today was war.
She cleared her throat. "One thing is certain—Dalab is terrified. We have numbers. This… this is the kind of army that makes cities shit themselves."
Fien smiled like a kid who'd just been handed a flamethrower.
But Shæz wasn't done. "Fien, listen—we're not just fighting Dalab. We're fighting Gideon."
That name landed heavy. But Fien just grinned wider. "Yes," she said, like someone savoring a shot of vintage revenge. "How I love this."
Shæz frowned. "Gideon does not fight losing battles. If he's standing in Dalab right now, he knows something we don't. We need strategy. A real one."
"That," Fien said, turning toward the army, "is why you're here."
And that was that. Without warning, Fien turned back on her red horse like some ancient goddess of hype, her voice loud and commanding as it cracked across the field.
"Zela! Steza! Mela! Hear me! Today we do not march as scattered tribes, we march as one. Give me this city, and in return, I shall give you Senedro itself. I shall raise your names so high that the stars shall envy them! Let this day be burned into history. Fight! And give it your whole—your whole!"
The army roared. It was the kind of shout that made the earth tremble and birds just noped out of the sky.
But Shæz wasn't shouting. She wasn't cheering. Because something felt off. Fien hadn't let her finish. She'd cut her off too quickly. And Shæz—battle-hardened, sharp as hell—felt it in her gut. This wasn't just war. Something was coming. Something worse.
And the silence of the birds, was a pattern she'd seen before in her worst battles.