Ten minutes.
That was all it took to turn the Monroe estate from a frantic construction site into a staging ground for war.
In the cobbled courtyard, thirty elite guardsmen stood rigid beside their mounts, locked in lethal, disciplined silence. They wore reinforced brigandine, heavy helms, and repeating crossbows slung across their backs, the smell of oiled leather and cold steel hanging heavy in the air.
Julian Vance strode through the ranks, checking pack saddles and ammunition crates. He paused as Ramona led her massive black stallion out from the stables, the animal’s iron-shod hooves striking the frost-bitten stone with sharp, ringing concussions.
She wore a dark, oil-treated leather riding coat that smelled of pine tar and rain, her father’s heavy broadsword secured firmly across her spine. Her face was an absolute block of ice, breath pluming white against the biting morning chill.
“All packs secured, rations distributed,” Julian reported, falling into step beside her stirrup. He eyed her with a mix of disbelief and grim awe. “You’re actually doing this. Riding straight into a collapsed mountain pass on a single panic-stricken dispatch.”
“It wasn't panic, Julian. It was a casualty report,” Ramona snapped, pulling her leather gloves tight with a sharp crack of stretching hide. “We aren’t waiting for the Ministry to send flowers. We ride.”
She raised her right hand.
“Move out!”
The thirty-man vanguard surged through the iron gates, their horses' hooves thundering in a deafening, rhythmic roar against the cobblestones. Pedestrians scattered with frantic shouts; merchants dropped wooden crates that shattered on the pavement; guardsmen gaped as the heavily armed troop tore through Kai’s northern avenues like a bolt of dark lightning, kicking up a bitter dust of dry earth and horse sweat.
They didn't slow for toll gates. They didn't stop for checkpoints.
Ramona rode at the absolute front, the howling rush of the wind roaring in her ears, her eyes locked on the jagged, snow-capped peaks piercing the gray horizon.
Faster.
Every second lost was another heartbeat her father might not have. The initial seismic fractures at Kaelen’s Pass weren't just random earth movements—they were the tectonic precursors to the rift zones. If they didn't break through before the deep-core swarm fully materialized, the pass wouldn't just be blocked. It would become a mass grave.
By nightfall, the manicured hills vanished, swallowed by the dense, looming pines of lodger forests that reeked of rotting pine needles and damp earth. The temperature plummeted violently, turning their sweat-soaked clothes into freezing layers of second skin and freezing the moisture inside their nostrils with every breath.
Ramona hauled her mount to a dead stop at a fork in the trail, raising a fist.
Julian trotted up beside her, his breath frosting in the dark, the metallic tang of fear and fatigue sharp on his tongue. “We’ve crossed the outer perimeter. The narrow approach to Kaelen’s Pass is two hours ahead. But the scouts report the lower road is choked with rockslides and... something else.”
“Something else?” Ramona prompted, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the pitch-black tree line.
“Tracks,” Julian muttered, his voice dropping into a tight, professional register. “Massive, multi-clawed prints in the mud. Whatever caused the collapse wasn't just falling rock, Ramona. Something broke out from beneath the stone.”
As if on cue, a low, subterranean vibration rippled through the frozen soil—a deep, rhythmic thrum that rattled their teeth and made the horses whinny in blind panic, stamping frantically against the mud.
Ramona’s blood ran cold. The blind, hyper-sensitive, armored horrors were surfacing early.
She unslung her repeating crossbow, checking the magazine with a sharp, metallic clack that cut through the silence.
“Mount up,” Ramona ordered, her voice ringing with lethal authority, carrying the bitter taste of impending violence. “Draw your blades, keep your crossbows loaded. We’re walking into the dark. If anything moves between the trees that isn't human—you don't shout. You fire.”
Julian drew his shortsword with a crisp, singing shing that flared silver in the moonlight.
“You heard the lady! Tension your bows! Form up!”
The column plunged into the choking shadow of the gorge. The air turned foul and heavy with the suffocating stench of sulfur, rotting sulfurous mud, and copper. The forest fell dead silent—no crickets, no night birds, nothing save for the ragged breathing of the men and the sickening crunch-squelch of snow and mud beneath their boots.
They were heading straight into the maw of the apocalypse.
And Ramona wouldn't have it any other way.