The sharp mountain air still stung a little, but it was not as harsh now that Micah and Lio had started their descent. The wind that had been howling across the peaks quieted down, replaced by something deeper—the low, steady hum of the mountain itself. It was like the mountain was speaking in its own way, a deep vibration that hinted at the hidden energy lines and constant movement happening beneath the surface in the Ashari city below.
They moved down the steep rock face with the kind of confidence that comes from experience. Their gear adapted on the fly, shifting shades of grey to match the stone around them while keeping them warm against the lingering chill. Micah, lean and built for endurance, adjusted the reinforced straps on his pack. Every motion was efficient, second nature after years of training—first as a Forgeborn kid, then through a tough education grounded in engineering, survival, and logic. In Ashari culture, you didn't get ahead by birthright—you earned your place. Micah had passed his Foundry Trial in a way no one expected, earning both praise and side-eyes for thinking outside the box.
Lio, the slim figure by his side, moved with quiet precision, humming a soft, tuneless song as he went. He was a prodigy, having fast-tracked through the Ashari guild system, skipping levels most spent years mastering. Despite his young age, he held a level of authority that others twice his age might envy. To Micah, Lio was not just brilliant—he was someone he trusted completely, especially when it came to the complex guts of Ashari tech. Still, even with all that talent, Lio sometimes wrestled with self-doubt. When he worked, though, that all disappeared—he locked in completely, totally absorbed in whatever problem was in front of him.
As they made their way down, they passed by vents and solar panels so well hidden they looked like part of the natural rock. These were not just for show—they were part of Elora's upper design, capturing and filtering sunlight that was funneled deep underground through mirrored crystals, lighting up huge open spaces called "light wells."
Elora itself was an incredible achievement—built right into the side of a mountain and blending perfectly with the terrain around it. Tucked beneath a wide plateau, the city was solid and secure, reinforced with layers of steel and stone. The deeper you went, the more you reached the real heart of Ashari strength: powerful nuclear cores that provided nearly endless energy, compact but elite military barracks, and the central council chamber where all major decisions for the alliance were made.
Below the surface stretched a massive network of tunnels used for travel, storage, and emergency shelters. The whole city followed the Ashari's "tri-strata" design: the bottom layer focused on practicality, the middle designed for balance and community life, and the top built to adapt naturally to the world above.
As they neared one of the reinforced entrances to Elora, the air carried a faint, metallic tang—a mix of recycled oxygen and processed minerals. Through the entryway, you could already see the city's interior: sleek and efficient, with metal and stone, glowing lights embedded in clean walls, and control panels lit up with soft energy. The Ashari script, made up of flowing glyphs, looked like it belonged on a circuit board—part language, part symbol, all precision.
Micah held his personal device in his hand, the smooth surface cool and familiar. It was not just a piece of gear—it was a symbol of what his people had achieved, and a constant reminder of what it might cost. The fear of turning into something like the Omniraith—cold, robotic, stripped of anything human—never really left him. He depended on tech for everything: to stay alive, to connect, to fight. But he also knew it came with risks. The Ashari were known to push the limits, sometimes crossing into morally gray areas. That stood in stark contrast to the Myrvane, who saw their water-based tech as a lifeline, or the Thornkin, who viewed magic as a way to keep the world in balance.
He glanced over at Lio, who was fully focused on checking their rappelling gear. Micah sometimes wished he could be like that—able to shut out everything else and just deal with the task in front of him. But for him, everything was filtered through the weight of the past. He lost his home, his family, the trauma of war—it all stuck with him. It made it hard to let people in or fully trust anyone. He was still fighting—for hope, for redemption, for a better future—but some days, it seems like too much to carry. The Omniraith and their horrifying ability to capture and strip away what made people human were a constant reminder of how easy it was to lose everything.
They stepped through the entrance, a thick stone door hidden in the rock face, which sealed behind them with a soft hiss of hydraulics. Instantly, the harsh chill of the outside world gave way to the steady, controlled warmth of Elora's outer edge. Soft lighting glowed along the metal-paneled walls, giving the space a calm, steady hum.
A guard was waiting—decked out in reinforced gear, probably from Solar Engineering or Recon. Like most Ashari, he was all business. Everything about him—his posture, his tone—spoke of discipline and efficiency.
"Go Head straight to the Council Chamber," he said, voice sharp and clipped. "They're meeting now. It's urgent."
"Got it", Micah replied, while keeping his expression neutral. He held back the reflex to blink out a coded message through his implant—a silent language common among scouts. But the guard was not part of their unit, so there was no point. Ashari communication was always tight-lipped—only saying what is necessary.
"What's going on?" Lio asked, curiosity lighting up his face. He was always hungry for details, especially the technical kind.
The guard gave a nearly invisible shake of his head. "Priority intel: a Myrvane courier just arrived. The Abyssal Throne is raising alarms—something about the Core Nexus being on the move."
Micah and Lio locked eyes for a brief second. The Abyssal Throne wasn't just any outpost—it was the nerve center of the Myrvane, buried deep beneath the ocean. And the Core Nexus? That was something else entirely. Hidden behind layers of automated defenses, it was the brain of the Omniraith—more than a machine, it was a massive, planet-spanning AI no one ever wanted to wake up. If it was starting to move, this wasn't just another border flare-up. This was something big.
They picked up the pace through the outer corridors, boots echoing softly in the quiet. The deeper they went into Elora, the heavier everything felt. It was not just the pressurized air or the layers of rock above—it was the sense that something was coming, something they might not be ready for. The fear was not spoken out loud, but it hung in the air like static. The Omniraith were not just enemies—they were a creeping, unnatural force, like a virus that had to be wiped out before it spread.
Micah's grip tightened around his device, jaw clenched. Whatever message the Myrvane courier had brought, it was not good. The Ashari had always known that survival depended on staying ahead of the tech game—especially now, when the Omniraith had locked down wireless systems. Everything had to be done the hard way: physical cables, secure optic lines, encoded messengers. "Fix it in the field" was their mantra, but this felt like something bigger than a field fix. It could unravel everything.
They were going to need all of it—the Ashari's problem-solving grit, the raw power of the Myrvane, and the mysterious balance the Thornkin brought with their magic. The alliance between the three groups was holding, but just barely. It was always a tightrope walk—shared goals wrapped in layers of mistrust and old wounds. Micah tried to stay hopeful, but deep down, he did not trust the other factions completely. Too many secrets. Too many chances for things to go wrong.
They reached the access shaft and stepped onto the gravitational lift. It dropped smoothly, the hum of the machinery growing louder as they descended. The air got heavier, thicker with heat and pressure. They passed through levels humming with energy systems and logistics before finally approaching the core of it all—the civic and military heart of Elora.
Inside the layered, dome-shaped Council Chamber, Ashari officials sat behind the glowing walls of holographic data. Every sector seemed to have a seat at the table, and the room now was buzzed with the quiet hum of projections and updates. There was a strange tension in the air—controlled, measured—but underneath it all, it felt like the calm right before something big hit. Everything here ran on logic and precision; the Ashari didn't waste time or words.
Micah's eyes quickly found Kaelin Vorr. He was already there, arms folded, his stance radiating a quiet resistance—or maybe frustration. Kaelin had always been the type to push for action over caution, a no-nonsense soldier who did not have much patience for drawn-out deliberations.
He also spotted Dr. Eland Voss among the senior council members. Voss had been a mentor to him, someone who had taught him how to think in systems and solve problems with tech. While many saw him as overly cautious—or just plain slow—especially the younger crowd itching for quick fixes, no one could deny his brilliance. His ideas often walked a fine line between groundbreaking and ethically questionable, but that was part of what made them effective—and dangerous.
Off to the side stood the Myrvane envoy, still dripping slightly from his trek through the submerged tunnels that connected to the old smuggler routes in the mountains. He was Wrapped in a full aquatic exosuit, looked like he'd stepped straight out of the ocean depths. The Myrvane, with their deep-sea roots and strict military order, were known for their slow, deliberate way of speaking—full of sea-born metaphors and layered meanings that sometimes left even the sharpest minds guessing.
The council leaders were all in place—General Ryss Alon, Councilor Veyla Marr, and others—faces carved from stone, but even they couldn't fully hide the tension. For a people who prided themselves on emotional control, the weight of the moment was clearly written in the tightness around their eyes and the silence between their words.
Now The Myrvane scout stepped forward, while his voice was low and powerful, echoing slightly in the chamber. He spoke about strange sonar readings out in the abyssal plains, and sea life acting weird near the old trenches—signs, he suggested, of possible Omniraith interference. Then came the reports of underwater outposts going dark, with no warning and no trace—just silence. His words were laced with poetic metaphors, as was typical for his people: "the current stirs from the trench," "the deep feels its pulse," and "the tide is turning black."
Micah leaned in, focused. As someone who'd spent time in the field with different factions, he was better than most at picking apart their layered ways of speaking. He knew that "the current stirs from the trench" wasn't just poetic flair—it was code. The Core Nexus was on the move. That alone changed everything.
"This has never been happened before," one of the council members said, their voice carrying through the room. "The Core Nexus has always stayed put."
"They are done waiting," Dr. Voss added, voice calm but grave. "They're repositioning. This is not about passive assimilation anymore. They are gearing up for something bigger."
The chamber shifted into quiet chaos as debate sparked around the room. Some leaders pushed for a fast, aggressive defense—many of them younger, or from outposts that had seen the worst of Omniraith attacks firsthand. But others, people with more traditional views, called for caution. They did not want to throw out protocols or provoke a larger conflict before understanding the full scope of what was just unfolded.
Lines were being drawn—between old ways and new strategies, between caution and urgency, between survival and loyalty to the alliance. The cracks in unity, always there beneath the surface, were starting to widen.
"We need to think about where we stand," one of the councilors said, tension tightening their voice. "Protecting Elora comes first. Can we really count on Thornkin magic or the Myrvane's underwater tactics if the mountain comes under direct attack?" The comment cut to the heart of a long-standing Ashari mistrust of outsiders—a mix of past betrayals and a deep-rooted doubt in anything that didn't run on tech.
After the meeting broke, Micah, Lio, and Kaelin gathered in a private room for a quick debrief. The silence between them was thick with unspoken worries.
"This is insane," Kaelin said, arms still folded, eyes sharp. "We're seriously sitting around discussing defense perimeters while the Core Nexus is on the move? We should be hitting them now, before they have a chance to dig in." He did not bother hiding his frustration—at the council, the Myrvane, all of it. He wanted action. Now.
Lio glanced from Micah to Kaelin, uncertainty flickering behind his glasses. The Myrvane's report had rattled him too, but he hesitated, clearly weighing the risk. "If we move too early," he started, "we might just open ourselves up. The Council's right efficiency is"
"love," Kaelin cut in, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, tell that to the ones who have already been assimilated. Or to the dead zones."
Micah stepped between them, steady as always. He was used to being the middle ground—caught between Kaelin's need to act and Lio's careful logic. His gut often pulled against the Ashari's calculated doctrines. "Kaelin's not wrong," he said, voice calm but firm. "The Core moving like this—it's not just a shift in strategy. It's a change in rhythm."
He turned to Lio. "But you are right too. If we strike without thinking, we're playing right into their hands."
"So what's the plan?" Kaelin asked, locking eyes with Micah.
"We get ready," Micah replied. "Double-check our systems. Cross-reference the Myrvane's intel. Coordinate with the others. No provocations—yet. But if we need to move, we move fast." It was classic Micah—always trying to find that razor-thin balance between instinct and strategy, between holding the line and knowing when to break it.
Their dynamic was already forming: Micah the steady lead, Lio the curious idealist, Kaelin the blunt realist. And underneath it all, the cracks that hinted at future rifts—ideological ones that could fracture them when it mattered most.
Later, back in his quarters, Micah sat alone. The walls glowed with soft, artificial light, a calm scene totally at odds with the churn in his mind. His space was small, practical—built from heatproof alloys and repurposed materials, like everything the Ashari made. Functional. Durable. Barely a trace of comfort.
He held his device tightly. It was not just a tool—it was part of him. A symbol of the Ashari's full reliance on tech. And sometimes, that scared him. Because he was afraid that, piece by piece, he was becoming something more like a machine than man.
He opened a hologram. Faces shimmered into view—family, old teammates, all lost now. The scar on his side ached, heavy with memory. He flicked through an old log, flashes of his Foundry Trial surfacing, or maybe that brutal day he earned the scar. It all blurred together—trauma rarely came in clear, tidy scenes.
He shut the image down and pulled up the tactical display. A red pulse blinked in the southeastern quadrant—where the Omniraith had turned lush terrain into a metallic graveyard. Not just any signal. This was it. The Core Nexus had moved. The Myrvane had been right.
He stared at that red light, unblinking. The warning wasn't theoretical anymore. It was real.
"It's starting again," Micah whispered to the quiet room. He could feel it—deep down, that sharp, familiar edge in his gut. The stillness was over. Whatever came next was going to change everything.
The echoes from the deep had spoken. And now, the real war—between nature and machine, survival and domination—was about to begin.