The spear left her hand with such force that the very air seemed offended by its passing. For a fraction of a second there was resistance, as though the world itself objected to the violence of its intent, and then that resistance shattered. A sharp, thunderous crack split across the battlefield as the weapon broke the sound barrier, the noise echoing over the churned mud and broken corpses like a divine proclamation. The shockwave rippled outward in a visible distortion, flattening grass and sending loose clods of earth skittering away from its path.
Halcyon’s Spire had always answered her call, but there was something especially vicious in its flight now. The silvered shaft spun slightly as it cut forward, its holy edge burning with a pale radiance that hissed where it met the tainted air around the Broodmother’s swollen form.
The impact was not subtle. When the spear struck, it did not simply pierce, It split through flesh that had long ago ceased to deserve the name with the fury of an angry god. The Broodmother’s bloated torso ruptured around the point of contact, splitting apart in a grotesque bloom of ichor and corrupted tissue. The sound was wet and catastrophic, a thunderclap layered with the tearing of something far too thick to be skin and far too soft to be stone. Chunks of dark meat and viscous fluid burst outward in all directions, splattering across the mud in steaming arcs.
Yet the spear did not stop. It bored through the entirety of the creature’s immense body as though it were nothing more than rotten fruit, trailing a tunnel of devastation in its wake. Emerging from the far side in a spray of gore, it continued onward for dozens upon dozens of metres before finally striking the sodden earth beyond. When it hit the ground, the force of the throw carried through into the terrain itself. Mud and shattered roots erupted skyward in a violent plume, cascading back down in a filthy rain that painted the battlefield anew.
For a moment, there was silence, then the Broodmother collapsed backward.
Its immense frame, already warped and overburdened by its own monstrous excess, no longer possessed the integrity to sustain itself. The split along its torso widened grotesquely as it fell, internal masses sloughing free in sickening heaps. It landed with a tremor that shook the surrounding forest, sending ripples through stagnant pools of blackened mud. Limbs, each thick as ancient tree trunks and tipped with barbed horrors thrashed wildly in blind reflex. They gouged trenches into the mud, shattered stone outcroppings, and crushed the few remaining lesser spawn unfortunate enough to be nearby.
The air filled with a shrill, warbling screech that wavered between rage and disbelief.
Umbra rolled her shoulders once, ignoring the lingering ache from the creature’s earlier blows. Mud clung to her armor, streaked with foul blood, yet she stood firm amidst the chaos as though rooted there by divine decree. Her gaze remained fixed on the convulsing mass of corruption.
“To me, Halcyon’s Spire,” she hissed, her voice low but laden with command.
There was no delay. From the distant crater where it had embedded itself, the spear answered.
The earth exploded upward once more as the weapon tore itself free, the motion far less elegant than its initial flight. It ripped from the ground with such violence that stone fragments and clotted mud were hurled outward in a deadly spray. For the briefest instant it hovered, spinning in place as though orienting itself, and then it shot forward.
This time it did not take the clean, singular path of a thrown projectile.
It howled back across the battlefield in a savage arc, the shaft rotating so rapidly that it blurred into a shining cyclone of steel and sanctified fury. As it passed through the Broodmother’s still-thrashing form, the spinning blade tore through corrupted limbs and bloated tissue alike, carving great spirals of devastation through the creature’s body. Chunks of blackened flesh were flung skyward in obscene fountains, splattering across the mud in heavy, wet impacts. The screeching rose in pitch, then fractured into a gargling wail as vital masses were reduced to ruin.
The spear passed through the central cavity once more, widening the original wound into something that could scarcely be called a body any longer. What remained of the Broodmother convulsed, its movements weakening as structural cohesion gave way entirely. Limbs fell limp one by one, crashing into the muck with dull, final thuds.
Still spinning, still humming with holy light, Halcyon’s Spire completed its brutal return.
Umbra extended her hand, and the spear snapped into her grasp with a solid, reassuring weight, its rotation ceasing instantly as though it had never moved at all. Steam curled from the blade where foul ichor sizzled and evaporated against its sanctified surface. Ahead of her, the remains of the Broodmother sagged into the mud, reduced to twitching ruin.
Umbra stared at the ruined corpse, then released a breath she didn’t realise she was holding. All that was left was to find the Witch and purge down any—
The remnants of the broodmother's corpse began to convulse.
Farah’s eyes snapped open as though pulled apart by invisible hooks, and she bolted upright with a sharp, ragged inhale that burned in her lungs. Sound crashed into her awareness all at once, no longer muffled by the strange in-between place she had endured. There were urgent cries, some high with panic, others stern and commanding, and all of them directed, unmistakably, at her.
For a brief and disorienting moment she could not remember where she was, only that she had leapt, that there had been falling without end, and that there had been an impact which her body had barely survived. The memory returned in fragments, and with it the realization that she was no longer suspended between worlds.
She was still on the strange, sticky stone surface where she had fallen, its texture pressing unpleasantly against her palms as she steadied herself. The material was unlike any paving she had known, neither cobble nor brick nor carved slab, but a smooth dark expanse that smelled faintly acrid, as though it had been forged rather than laid.
Three figures hovered close to her, all clad in matching green garments that looked both utilitarian and foreign. The fabric was thick and fitted, adorned with small reflective strips and odd fastenings. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a lined face and close-cropped hair, leaned toward her with cautious determination. He placed a firm hand against her shoulder and attempted to press her back down, speaking rapidly in a language she could not understand.
The sounds washed over her in a flurry of unfamiliar syllables. His tone suggested instruction, perhaps reassurance, but the words themselves meant nothing. The foreign cadence scraped uncomfortably against her ears, and instinct flared bright within her.
She turned her glare upon him, golden eyes flashing with irritation and confusion alike, and shook off his touch with far more force than she intended. The man stumbled backward a half-step, clearly startled, and the other two in green exchanged tense glances.
Forcing herself to breathe more evenly, Farah lifted her head and allowed her gaze to sweep outward.
Humans had gathered in a wide semicircle around her, though they kept their distance as if she were some dangerous animal cornered in the center of a marketplace. Many of them held up small rectangular objects in their hands, thin and dark with glowing faces that reflected her own kneeling form back at her in distorted miniature. Some clutched these rectangles with both hands, others angled them curiously, and nearly all stared at her through them as though the devices were some form of arcane lens.
Behind that outer ring stood more humans wearing blue uniforms, darker and more structured than the green garments of the trio nearest her. These individuals bore rigid expressions and carried themselves with disciplined posture. Their clothing included hard-looking vests and belts laden with unfamiliar tools, giving the impression of light armor designed not for war but for order. They extended their arms outward, urging the onlookers to step back, forming a protective barrier around the space she occupied.
The noise had not lessened, it only shifted in tone, growing louder as more voices joined in, rising and falling in waves of confusion and alarm.
Farah returned her attention to the three in green, who still seemed intent on restraining her. She could not allow that. Not until she understood where she was, nor until she determined whether this place held friend or foe.
With controlled strength, she pushed them away. Not violently of course, but firmly enough that none dared to lay hands on her again. Then, drawing upon both dignity and stubbornness, she rose fully to her feet.
Her wings unfurled instinctively. White feathers stretched wide, catching the strange light of this world and drawing a collective gasp from the gathered humans. The motion sent a ripple through the air, and several people stumbled backward in renewed alarm. The wings felt heavier here, as though the air itself were denser, yet they responded faithfully to her will, settling into a poised arc behind her.
It was only then that she noticed her prayer book lying a short distance away upon the dark stone. A flicker of anxiety tightened her chest. She extended her will toward it without hesitation, the familiar tug answered immediately, and the book slid across the surface before lifting into her waiting hand. The weight of it was grounding and a great comfort in this alien world, and she allowed herself a small, relieved exhale as her fingers closed around the worn cover.
Clearly, her journey between worlds had succeeded. The portal had not devoured her and the spell had not failed, but success alone did not guarantee correctness.
She needed to know whether she had reached the world into which the Witch had fled, the world where Umbra had been dragged against her will. The thought alone steadied her racing mind. If she had miscalculated, if this was some entirely separate realm, then all her effort would have been squandered.
She forced herself to look beyond the sea of staring faces and towering structures.
She appeared to be standing upon a wide road composed entirely of the same sticky, dark stone, marked with pale painted lines that divided it into lanes. The surface stretched in both directions as far as she could see, flanked by impossibly tall buildings of glass and metal that shimmered in the daylight.
Arrayed along the road were large, enclosed carriages fashioned from gleaming materials. They were parked at odd angles, some halted abruptly as though their motion had been interrupted. They had no horses harnessed before them, no visible beasts to pull their weight, and yet they clearly possessed the capacity for movement. She could see wheels beneath them, though far more refined than any wagon’s and faint heat shimmered from their rears.
Horseless carriages… The term rose unbidden in her thoughts, accompanied by a memory that made her heart stutter.
Umbra had spoken of such things during late nights, when the world had been quiet and responsibilities had been momentarily forgotten. She had described a place of towering buildings and self-moving carriages. She had spoken of glowing rectangles that allowed distant communication, of roads that stretched endlessly, of a world driven not by mana but by strange controlled energies.
At the time, Farah had listened with half-amused fascination, treating it as an improbable tale from another lifetime. Now she stood amid its reality.
Hope bloomed within her chest and began to unfurl like her wings had moments earlier. If these were indeed the contraptions Umbra had described, if these strange people and their luminous devices belonged to that same world, then she had not erred in her calculations.
This very well could be the right place. If that was true, then there was only one thing left for her to do.
She would find her love.