The days after Oakhaven blurred together.
Patrols. Training. Rebuilding. The rhythm of survival, steady and relentless.
The communal hall was gone, but the valley adapted. Meals were shared in the open. Meetings were held in the largest cabin. The children played in the fields, their laughter a fragile counterpoint to the weight we carried.
I trained every morning. Pushed my body. Tested my limits. The power was there—waking, growing, becoming.
But slowly.
Always slowly.
Ami trained with me.
Her blade was faster now. Her movements sharper. The tournament had changed her—not just in skill, in certainty. She no longer doubted herself.
"You're getting stronger," she said one morning, after a sparring session.
I lowered my blade. "So are you."
"Not fast enough."
She studied me. "You've been pushing yourself. Harder than before."
I looked at my hands. At the scars that were fading, the strength that was returning.
"It's not enough."
"Enough for what?"
I met her eyes. "For what's coming."
Corrin had thrown himself into the rebuilding.
The communal hall was rising from the ashes—new timber, fresh stone, a design stronger than before. He worked alongside the refugees, his shield strapped to his back, his hands callused from labor.
"You don't have to do this," I said, finding him at the site.
He didn't stop. "Yes, I do."
"Why?"
He set a beam in place. Stepped back. Wiped his brow.
"Because I couldn't save Lancet. I couldn't save the people who died there. But I can build this." He looked at me. "I can build something that lasts."
I said nothing.
He picked up another beam. "That's enough."
Kael spent his days in the forest.
Not patrolling—hunting. He moved through the trees like a ghost, his pistols drawn, his senses sharp.
He was looking for the figure.
The one who had started the fire.
The one who had been watching.
He never found it.
But he found signs. Faint. Almost invisible. Tracks that led nowhere. Disturbed leaves that didn't match the wind. A sense of presence, always just out of sight.
"It's still out there," he told me one evening. "Watching. Waiting."
"For what?"
He looked at the forest. At the darkness between the trees.
"I don't know."
The nightmares came every night now.
Not visions of the cracked earth. Not the dying sky. Just darkness.
And then the voice.
"Help me."
It started softly. Human. Tired. Almost gentle.
A voice that had been speaking for a long time.
"Help me."
The second time, there was something beneath it. A crackle. A distortion. Like static bleeding through.
"Help me."
The third time, the voice wavered. Strained. As if something was pressing against it, trying to silence it.
"H-help me."
The fourth time, it broke. Stuttered. Glitched.
The human warmth was fading. Something else was taking its place.
"H-H-Help... m-m-me..."
The fifth time, it was barely recognizable. Robotic. Mechanical. Words torn apart and stitched back together wrong.
But beneath it—beneath the static, beneath the glitching, beneath the wrongness—
—something human still remained.
Something tired.
Something that had been fighting for a very, very long time.
I woke gasping.
My heart pounded. My skin was slick with sweat. The scars on my hands throbbed.
The room was dark. The valley was quiet. The mountains were still.
The words echoed in my mind.
Help me.
Over and over. Breaking apart. Glitching. Dying.
What was it?
And why wouldn't it stop?
I didn't sleep again that night.
I sat by the window, watching the stars fade, watching the sun rise over the mountains.
The dream stayed with me.
Help me.
Each time more distorted than the last. Each time more desperate.
Something was reaching out.
Something was in pain.
Something needed help.
Ami found me at dawn.
"You look terrible," she said.
"I didn't sleep."
"Nightmares?"
I nodded.
"The same one?"
I hesitated. "Yes. But different. Worse."
She sat beside me. "Want to talk about it?"
I thought about the dream. About the voice breaking apart. About the static swallowing the words.
"There's something out there," I said. "Something that needs help."
"Help with what?"
"I don't know. It won't tell me. It just keeps saying the same thing. Over and over."
She was quiet for a moment. "That sounds like a warning."
I looked at her. "Or a cry for help."
The days passed.
The valley healed. The communal hall rose from the ashes. The fields grew green.
But the dreams didn't stop.
Each night, the same voice.
Each night, more broken than before.
"Help me."
"H-help me."
"H-H-Help... m-m-me..."
I woke gasping. Clawing at the sheets. Reaching for something I couldn't name.
Ami found me more than once. Sat beside me. Didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
One night, I sat on the ridge.
The stars were bright. The mountains were dark. The valley was quiet.
I reached inside.
9.0%.
Not enough.
But more than I had been.
I let the power settle. Let it rest. Let it wait.
Ami found me there.
"You're thinking," she said.
"Always."
She sat beside me. "About the nightmares?"
"About everything."
She was quiet for a moment. "What do we do?"
I looked at her. At the woman who had followed me from the ruins of Lancet to this valley of survivors.
"We survive," I said. "We prepare. We wait."
"For what?"
I looked at the forest. At the darkness that never quite lifted.
"For whatever comes next."
The next morning, a scout returned.
She had been ranging far to the east, beyond the mountains, beyond the places we had explored.
Her face was pale.
"There's something out there," she said. "Something big. An army."
I stared at her. "Demons?"
"I don't know. I couldn't get close. But I saw banners. Formations. Thousands of them."
Ami's face went pale. "Thousands?"
The scout nodded. "Moving this way. Slowly. But surely."
The valley gathered.
People emerged from their cabins. Farmers left their fields. Children stopped playing.
I stood at the center, my sword at my hip, my hands steady.
"We have a choice," I said. "We can run. Hide in the mountains. Wait for them to pass."
No one spoke.
"Or we can fight. Not because we're strong. Because this is our home. Because the people we've lost deserve to be remembered. Because running won't save us—not forever."
Lina stepped forward. Those too-old eyes fixed on mine.
"We fight," she said.
The crowd murmured. Then nodded. Then roared.
We would fight.
That night, I sat on the ridge one last time.
The stars were bright. The mountains were dark. The valley was quiet.
But not for long.
The army was coming.
The figure was watching.
The voice was waiting.
"Help me."
I reached inside.
9.0%.
Not enough.
But it would have to be.