Chapter Text
The night in Wakefield village was peaceful and quiet.
For Grace Campbell, sleep was a gentle tide, pulling her back to a shore that she could no longer visit while awake. Tucked beneath warm blankets, her black hair formed a messy halo around the pillow. Her purple eyes were hidden behind closed lids as she dreamed of simpler times.
Times when she still believed in miracles.
In her dreams, he was there. He was alive. Her husband's laughter echoed in the sunlit tavern that they had built together, his hand warm in hers. The scent of sawdust and spilled ale, the murmur of happy patrons, their laughter as they worked together to break up the brawls of unruly drunkards.
It was all so bright, shielding her from the painful ache of his absence. He had been her rock...her world, one that lost all of its color when he was buried all those years ago. His ghost turned to her in the dream, his smile as bright as the day they first opened the Starry Night.
"You're doing so well, my love..." He whispered soothingly.
She reached for him, love swelling in her chest. But just as her fingers brushed his, a sound suddenly shattered the illusion.
Scrape. Thud.
What was that? The noise was all wrong.
Grace's eyes snapped open.
The dream disappeared as the memory of her husband's touch faded into the cold air of her bedroom, leaving only the familiar outline of her furniture against the moonlit window. For a moment, there was silence and the frantic beat of her heart pounding against her chest. She sat up slowly, listening, every sense alive and alert as her eyes scanned the room.
Nothing.
Perhaps it was just a loose shutter or a cat on the roof. She let out a slow breath, trying to calm the sudden tremor in her hands. The tavern was locked, and the windows were bolted.
Right now, she should be the only one here.
Then...she saw movement. Her blood ran cold as a shadow pulled away from the dark near her wardrobe. It was small, hunched over, and in its hand was a drawn blade that glinted under the moonlight.
Grace's breath caught in her throat.
A goblin. Here, in her room, on the second floor of the tavern. Its beady eyes, full of greasy malice, stared at her. A low, guttural laugh oozed from its throat as it raised a wicked dagger. A sharp and cold terror pierced through her in that moment.
No...this couldn't be happening. Not here. Not in her home.
She had only a second to react before the creature lunged as a blur of leather and metal, aiming right for her heart. The world shrank to that point of sharpened steel.
But as it flew across the small room, something inside Grace, an instinct long buried beneath years of pouring ale and wiping down tables, roared to life. It was a muscle memory from another life, a time before the Starry Night, before her husband, before she had tried to forget who and what she was.
It took over her body like a spirit possessing her.
Throwing herself sideways, she rolled off the bed as the goblin's dagger sank into the mattress where she had just been. She hit the floor with a grunt, the impact rattling her bones, but she was already moving. Hissing in frustration, the goblin ripped its blade free, tearing off fabric and stuffing.
It jumped off the bed and came at her again, faster this time.
Grace scrambled backward on her hands and heels, her mind catching up to her body's automatic response. Right now, she was a tavern keeper, a grieving widow. But she had also been something else, once.
A soldier in a war she had fled. Olga's war.
As the goblin charged again, Grace kicked out, her bare foot connecting with its knee. The creature squealed, its leg buckling, but it didn't fall. In retaliation, it swiped at her with the dagger, forcing her to crabwalk backward until her shoulders hit the wall.
Nowhere else to go. She was trapped. Its foul stench filled her nostrils as it loomed over her, dagger raised for a final blow.
However, she didn't scream. The training of that forgotten life whispered in her ear, telling her what to do. Instead, Grace lunged forward, not away. She drove her shoulder into the goblin's chest, wrapping her arms around its wiry frame as she pulled its stinking body tight against hers.
It was a grappler's move, an unexpected and desperate gamble on her part.
The goblin grunted in surprise, its dagger arm pinned between their bodies. Its free hand clawed at her face, sharp nails digging into her cheek. Ignoring the stinging pain, Grace gritted her teeth and reared her head back…then slammed her forehead into the goblin's face with all her might.
Bam!
The blow left her seeing stars for a moment, but she felt a sickening, near satisfying crunch of cartilage as the goblin's nose gave way to her sudden attack. The creature shrieked, a high-pitched sound of agony, its grip on her loosening.
It was the opening she needed.
With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, she shoved the goblin away from her, and as it staggered back, disoriented, she planted a powerful kick squarely in its chest. The creature flew backward, its small body slamming into the far wall before collapsing onto the floor in a stunned and groaning heap. Gasping for air, Grace scrambled back to the bed, her hand shooting for something under her pillow.
Her fingers closed around a familiar weight, and as she pulled it out, the object was revealed to be a knife.
It was an elegant weapon, fit for a more civilized age. Ceremonial in appearance, Garan magic that she herself had imbued with a series of runes kept the obsidian blade preserved and sharp. A keepsake from her husband, who had always said it was for her protection. She had never thought she would actually use it.
Tonight, however, it would taste blood for the first time.
Her fingers tightened around the hilt, the cool metal steadying her nerves. Armed, a chilling confidence settled over her. The fear remained as a cold knot in her stomach, but now it was controlled by a warrior's resolve.
She was no longer just a cornered victim. Now, she was a Dark Elf with a blade in her hand.
The goblin stirred and pushed itself up on shaky arms, its nose a bloody ruin. When it saw her standing there, knife in hand, its pain-filled eyes widened with a flicker of fear before rage took over. Baring its teeth, it snatched up its dagger as it charged once more, a desperate, reckless rush.
Grace simply stood her ground, the knife held in a low and ready grip.
As the goblin threw itself at her, she sidestepped its clumsy charge before driving the blade upward, plunging it deep into the creature's throat.
Skerlch!
The goblin's charge suddenly stopped dead. It made a wet, gurgling sound, its eyes wide with shock. Its dagger clattered to the floor as its hands flew to the hilt buried in its neck.
For a moment, it stood there, impaled. Then its legs gave out, and it crumpled to the floor.
Silence descended upon the room once more, broken only by Grace's ragged breathing. She stared at the corpse, her knuckles white on the handle of the knife still resting in its throat. The adrenaline began to fade, leaving her shaky and nauseous. Cautiously, she nudged the body with her foot.
It didn't move. It was dead.
Only then did she allow herself to relax, her shoulders slumping as the tension fled her body. Kneeling, she pulled her knife free with a wet squelch, wiping it clean on the goblin's tunic.
Her gaze fell on the dagger that it had dropped. She picked it up, narrowing her eyes when she noticed a strange, oily sheen on the blade. Bringing it closer to the moonlight, she saw the faintly green residue coating the edge. Its appearance, coupled with the familiar smell of crushed almonds and rot, made her recognize it instantly.
Poison.
More specifically, it was poison brewed from a lotus native to her homeland called the Night's Kiss. Not fatal, but it brought on a swift and total paralysis that left the victim conscious but unable to move even a finger. Even a small nick could inflict unbearable numbness for hours.
Her blood ran cold. Looking at the dead goblin, she spotted a small leather pouch on its belt. She briefly inspected it, and inside, she found a set of crude but effective lockpicking tools. So that was how it got in...
As she shifted her gaze from the tools to the dagger in her hand, she formed a quick mental timetable.
It had picked the lock to the tavern, sneaked upstairs, and planned to paralyze her in her sleep. Why? For what?
Her mind supplied the answer with terrifying clarity.
To be taken. To be dragged away, helpless, a prize for whatever monsters were waiting downstairs. A wave of pure rage suddenly washed over her, so strong that it nearly made her dizzy. Her vision swam red.
The sheer audacity, the violation of her home, the grim fate they most likely had planned for her...it was too much at that moment.
"Fuck!"
With a guttural cry, she hurled the poisoned dagger across the room, where it clattered against the far wall with a violent thwack and fell to the floor. For a moment, she just stood there, her chest heaving. She forced herself to take deep, shuddering breaths, trying to push down the fury and terror.
That was when she heard it.
A distant scream, followed by another. Then, the splintering crash of wood, the clashing of steel, and the guttural roars.
The sounds weren't coming from inside the tavern anymore. They were outside. Everywhere.
Oh no...
With wide eyes, Grace scrambled to the window, peering through a crack in the curtains. Her heart stopped.
The peaceful village of Wakefield was gone. In its place was a nightmare. Torches blazed, creating flickering shadows across the cobblestones and walls. From her vantage point, she could see a tide of creatures pouring through the streets like a flood.
Hulking, green-skinned Orcs smashed through doors and desperate militiamen with massive clubs, while swarms of goblins dragged screaming villagers out of their homes and winged imps swooped down from the rooftops. A lumbering troll swung a tree trunk like a hammer, reducing the blacksmith's shop to rubble.
The Legion. They were here.
A gasp escaped her lips. She saw the purple and black banners, the symbol of the Dark Elf queen, Olga Discordia. A name from Grace's buried past, a name that made her teeth instinctively clench.
Another reminder of a life she became disillusioned with and tried to leave behind.
"Why?..." She whispered, her hand pressed against the cold glass. "Why is this happening?"
Wakefield was a small, insignificant village. They were far away from the war. There should be nothing here for the Dark Queen of Garan.
Grace stumbled back from the window, her hand flying to her mouth.
A wave of nausea and horror washed over her. She began to hyperventilate, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as her world started to spin. Panic threatened to consume her, but the discipline, the cold training from her past life, took over again.
Calm down. Think. Survive. She had to get out. She had to find Anna.
The thought of her best friend, sweet, gentle Anna, whose kindness had been the only thing that kept her going after her husband's passing, in the middle of this destruction, hit her hard. She had to reach her. They had to leave.
Then she paused, her gaze looking around the room as a wave of grief washed over her.
No...she shouldn't leave. It would mean abandoning the Starry Night, her home, her sanctuary, the last tangible piece of her husband that she had left. Every floorboard, every scuff on the wall, held a happy memory. To leave it now felt like a betrayal.
Grace hesitated for another moment before shaking her head fiercely, casting the thought aside.
But right now, these walls won't keep her safe, not anymore. Besides, those memories would be worthless if she was dead. All that mattered right now was her safety. Anna's safety mattered. He...he would want her to leave.
Her jaw tightened with determination.
She tore her gaze from the dream-filled bed and the goblin's body staining her floor, looking down at herself. Her nightgown was torn from the struggle, the cuts exposing her skin to the cool air. It was useless now.
Grace grimaced before moving over to her wardrobe.
With quick movements, she ripped off her ruined nightgown and changed into the work clothes she wore every day: a practical, purple waitress dress that allowed for easy movement and a pair of leather boots.
It wasn't armor, but it was better than nothing.
Her eyes landed on the poisoned dagger on the floor. After a moment's thought, she picked it up again. It was an ugly thing, but if she was going to survive, she would need every advantage she could get. Facing the open doorway, a shadow crossed her face as she now held a blade in each hand: her own elegant ceremonial knife and the goblin's crude, poisoned tool. A perfectly balanced pair.
Passing the goblin's corpse on her way to the door, she paused for a moment, and with a look of utter contempt, spat on its face before proceeding.
After reaching the end of the hallway, Grace crept down the stairs, making sure every footstep was silent. The first floor of the tavern, the main dining area, was dark and still. Too still. The familiar tables and chairs were mere silhouettes in the hellish orange glow from the windows.
As her eyes adjusted, she found that she was not alone.
An Orc stood guard against the front door, its bulk filling the frame as a spiked club rested on its shoulder. Its back was to her, its head scanning the chaos outside.
It had been waiting. Waiting for the goblin to do its work and bring her down while she was paralyzed and helpless.
The Orc must have heard her approach. It turned, its piggish eyes widening in surprise when it saw her standing there. The shock quickly changed to a slobbering, lustful leer that made Grace's skin crawl.
"There you are." It grunted, its voice a low rumble.
It took a step forward as it cracked its knuckles. "The little one took his time. No matter. You're mine now."
The creature then charged at her, its heavy steps shaking the mugs on the shelves.
Grace's mind worked frantically. There was no way she could fight it head-on. It was too big, too strong. She needed to outsmart it. As she faced the charging Orc, Grace didn't run away.
Instead, she ran at it.
The move was seemingly suicidal. After all, she was a tiny Dark Elf going up against a mountain of muscle and rage. The Orc's grin widened, perhaps thinking she was a fool as its massive hands reached for her, ready to snatch her in an embrace.
But at the last possible second, just as its grasp was about to close, Grace dropped into a low slide. The polished floorboards of her tavern, which she had scrubbed tirelessly before closing for the night, served her well.
She shot right between the creature's legs like an arrow, its fingers closing on empty air.
As she passed under it, she slashed upward with the goblin's dagger, cutting a deep gash across the back of the Orc's thigh. The creature roared, more in surprise than pain, its charge carrying it a few steps further before it stumbled. Its leg went numb instantly as the fast-acting poison did its job.
It tried to turn, to grab her again with its massive hands, but its balance was gone. The Orc crashed to the floor, shaking nearby tables and chairs with its fall. It clutched its paralyzed leg, confusion and fury written on its face as it tried to get back up.
Grace was already on her feet behind it.
She didn't give it a chance to recover. Like a silent predator, she stalked over to the fallen behemoth with a cold and unforgiving expression. The Orc looked up at her, its eyes wide with a mix of fear and realization.
"No, wait! Plea-"
Raising her ceremonial knife, she plunged it directly into the Orc's eye socket, sinking the blade deep into its brain. The giant creature convulsed once, then lay still. Yanking her knife out, she didn't linger to check if it was dead.
The gurgling death rattle was proof enough. The path was clear.
Grace let out a sigh, then turned towards the chaos outside. There was no way she was going out through the front door. The bulk of the Legion's forces would be on the main street. Hundreds, by the sound of it. It would be a death trap
She shifted her gaze to the bar, and behind it, where the kitchen was.
So, the back entrance it was then. It led to a narrow alleyway. That was her safest bet.
Racing behind the bar and into the kitchen, she cautiously pushed open the rear service entrance before stepping out. Slipping into the night, the Dark Elf shivered as she heard the sounds of battle and slaughter all around her. The air was thick with the smell of blood and the smoke of burning homes.
She moved through the shadows, a ghost among the chaos.
Alleyways and the dark spaces between buildings became her refuge. Grace took it slow, carefully pressing herself against the darkness, her two blades held ready. Every corner was a new danger. Every shadow might hide a monster.
She didn't know how much time had passed, but every second felt like an eternity as her mind raced with a frantic prayer for Anna's safety.
She had to find her. She had to get to the Florence estate on the other side of the village. On the other side of this madness. Anxiety gnawed at her, creating a cold knot of dread in her stomach.
What if...what if she was too late?
Rounding a corner too quickly, she suddenly collided with a figure moving stealthily in the opposite direction. She fell with a startled yelp, landing hard on the cobblestones. Instinct took over quickly, however, as she rolled and brought both her blades up into a defensive position, ready to fight for her life.
"Back off!" She hissed, her voice trembling with the effort to stay controlled.
"Grace?"
The voice cut through her panic instantly. It was...familiar. The figure she had run into was no monster.
"Grace, it's us!"
Her eyes focused.
It was Anna, her beautiful, blonde-haired High Elf friend, her blue eyes wide with terror and relief. Behind her stood her husband, Ian Florence, the village lord. He was a mountain of a man, his thick beard matted with soot and blood, a massive battle axe held in his hands with a white-knuckled grip.
For a moment, they all just stared at each other, stunned by the chance encounter. Then, Grace broke the silence.
"Anna!"
The name came out as a choked sob.
All the tension, fear, and violence of the last hour broke her composure. Grace scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around her friend, burying her face in Anna's shoulder. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the two women clung to each other like their lives depended on it.
"I thought…I thought you two…"
"I know." Anna whispered, hugging her back tightly. "I know. I hid at home. Ian came for me. He was leading the militia, but he came back. We were coming to get you."
Grace pulled back, looking at Ian, whose grim face was scanning the rooftops diligently. "Ian? What's happening? Is it really…?"
The Lord of Wakefield turned to her, and the look in his eyes almost terrified her. It was the look of a man who had admitted defeat. He shook his head slowly, the grief and frustration on his face evident.
"It's lost, Grace..." He confirmed gravely, "The Legion's numbers are too great. We were being overwhelmed. I ordered a retreat. The militia is gathering who they can and falling back. We have to run. Now."
The words hit Grace like a physical blow.
Lost. The battle was lost. Wakefield was gone. Realistically, she knew this to be true given what she had seen, but hearing it firsthand left a sour taste in her mouth.
Her home, the life she had spent years rebuilding...reduced to nothing in a single night.
She stood there, stunned into silence, the roar of the flames seeming to grow louder in her ears. Before she could fully process it, however, a guttural shout echoed from the end of the alley. They had been spotted.
A group of Orcs charged toward them, their cruel blades and clubs held high.
"Run!" Ian roared, pushing Anna ahead of him. "To the woods!"
The three of them broke into a desperate sprint. Around them, the village became a deadly maze. Orcs spilled from seemingly every doorway and side street, drawn by the commotion.
Ian was a whirlwind of destruction, his battle axe cutting through flesh and bone. His brute strength was a wall protecting them as he cleaved through the first Orcs that reached them.
Next to him, Grace was a blur of deadly precision. Her dual blades, one dark and one light, danced in the torchlight, finding throats, eyes, and gaps in crude armor. She moved with a lethal grace that was almost mesmerizing to watch, ducking under wild swings as she plunged her ceremonial knife into an Orc's throat, while the poisoned dagger struck another, paralyzing its arm before she finished it.
They were a surprisingly effective team, cutting a bloody path through the monsters that stood in their way. Anna, unarmed and not a fighter, could only run between them, caught in the middle of the violence. Her face was pale with fear, her survival dependent entirely on the two people she loved most.
They were almost there. The dark, protective line of the forest was just ahead.
Safety. Freedom.
If they could just reach the cover of the trees, they might have a chance to disappear into the night. The adrenaline in Grace's blood fueled her, pushing her forward. It dulled the ache in her lungs and the sting of the smoke in her eyes.
"We're almost there!" She yelled, hope breaking through her dread.
Those were her last words before everything suddenly went to hell.
A massive shape burst from the shadows of a nearby building, slamming into Grace with the force of a battering ram. She had no time to react. Thrown into the air, her world spun in a dizzying arc. She landed with a sickening thud, her head cracking painfully against the earth. Stars exploded behind her eyes, and the sounds of battle faded into a dull roar.
A concussion, most likely.
She tried to push herself up, to reach for her weapons, which had skittered away in the fall. Her fingers had just brushed against the hilt of her knife when a heavy boot kicked it further out of reach. Then a huge, calloused hand wrapped around her throat, lifting her off the ground as if she weighed like nothing. Grace gasped, her legs kicking uselessly as she struggled for air.
Her vision cleared just enough to see her captor.
It was an Orc, but unlike the others she had encountered. It was monstrous, with a dirty white beard and a body marked with scars and ritualistic tattoos. A chieftain. Its eyes, ancient and cruel, swept over her with a possessive, lustful hunger.
Yellow teeth formed an eager grin.
"Caught me a pretty one..." It growled, its voice like stones grinding together. "A fine prize, indeed."
Its free hand snaked out, grabbing the front of her dress and tearing the fabric from top to bottom with one effortless motion, leaving her half-naked and exposed to the cold night air.
Feelings of helplessness and humiliation threatened to crush her. She couldn't fight back. Her limbs felt like lead, her head a throbbing mess.
"Grace!"
She heard Anna scream her name, along with Ian's roar of rage. But their voices were drowned out by the sounds of a new ambush. More Orcs.
Through her blurry vision, Grace saw them swarm her friends. Ian was dragged down under a pile of bodies, the monsters beating him into submission. She saw them hold Anna down, the high elf's terrified cries tearing into her heart as they ripped at her clothes, their leering faces promising a fate worse than death.
Tears of rage and despair streamed down Grace's cheeks. The chieftain pulled her closer, its foul tongue licking a stripe up her face.
"Don't worry, little elf." The Chieftain whispered, its hand tightening around her neck until her vision began to darken at the edges. "You'll have plenty of time to scream before the night is over."
As it prepared to violate her, she closed her eyes, one bitter thought consuming her.
She had tried. She had fought. But in the end, the world was too cruel and the monsters were too many. She thought of her husband and the quiet life that they had built in the Starry Night.
A deep regret washed over her for not being able to join him in the earth before this moment.
She had failed. She had failed her husband's memory. She had failed Anna and Ian...and she had failed herself. In the deepest, most hopeless part of her soul, she wished for a miracle. For someone to save them, a prayer to gods she no longer believed in.
Please. Someone...anyone...
Then suddenly, something answered her call.
Out of nowhere, a series of sounds ripped through the air, unlike anything she had ever heard before. It was a sharp, loud crackle. The sounds of thunder.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Grace's eyes flew open.
The Orc chieftain's head, which had been leaning toward her, violently snapped back. Three bloody, perfect holes had appeared in its skull. Its lustful eyes went vacant, and its grip on her neck loosened. Lifeless, its massive body began to fall, taking her down with it.
As Grace fell, she braced herself for the impact of hard ground. But it never came. Instead, there was a blur of movement, and a strong, metal-clad arm caught her with a grace that defied its size. She then found herself cradled against a chest that felt as solid as a mountain.
Blinking, her head swam as she looked up at her savior.
It was a...giant of some kind. An armored titan clad in form-fitting plates of olive-green metal that shimmered with a dull finish. Red markings stood out against the green, while a polished golden visor reflected her own image and the fires of Wakefield back at her.
In his other hand, he held a bulky, rod-like weapon, unlike any crossbow or staff she had ever seen. Smoke curled from its tip. That must be where the thunder came from.
Her savior didn't speak to her. Not yet. Instead, he set her down gently, then calmly turned to face the Orcs that were holding down Anna and Ian.
The creatures looked up, shock and rage on their faces at their chieftain's sudden death.
"K-Kill it!" One of the Orcs screamed, finally finding its voice.
The warning came too late. Before they could raise their weapons, the armored giant reacted faster, taking aim with his strange weapon and pulling the trigger. What came immediately after was a complete massacre as more of those thunderous cracks echoed, short bursts of power and fury that lit up the treeline.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK! CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
Each sound was accompanied by flashes of light from the end of his weapon, and each flash found its mark. One by one, the monsters reeled back, their bodies full of holes before they could even let out a final cry. They collapsed in a heap like puppets with their strings cut, all dead as they hit the ground.
The silence that followed was almost deafening.
From behind the giant, Grace simply stared, her mind unable to grasp the devastating power she just witnessed. The ease with which her savior had dispatched the Orcs was cold, brutally efficient, leaving her in a state of shock. She flinched with every roar of the weapon, the sound vibrating in her very bones, but she couldn't look away.
In less than seconds, the threat that had seemed unbeatable was erased like nothing, leaving only the smell of burnt sulfur and Orc corpses.
Free from their captors, Anna and Ian quickly scrambled into each other's arms, weeping with relief before looking at the armored giant in stunned awe. But Grace's gaze remained on him. Dazed, she watched as he, his weapon still raised and scanning the perimeter, finally turned back to her.
A calm and deep voice came through his helmet. "Are you okay, ma'am?"
She stayed silent as the words took a moment to register. She could only nod weakly, her throat too tight to respond. Slowly, she took in the smooth, intricate plates of his armor, his towering height, and the confident stillness of his posture.
He wasn't a knight, at least one she could recognize, and he wasn't a mage either. He was something entirely different.
Finally, her eyes settled on the peculiar markings etched on his chest plate: a red diamond followed by a series of three white symbols…092.
Grace blinked again. Was she hallucinating? Was this some spirit of vengeance her mind had conjured from the concussion?
"I...I think so. Just a small headache." She managed to whisper, her hands clutching the remains of her dress to her chest. "Who…who are you?"
The golden visor tilted slightly. The giant lowered his weapon and stepped closer, his armored boots thumping against the ground. He reached out a hand, then seemed to think better of it and lowered it.
"A friend." He replied simply. "Don't worry. We're here to help."
Grace frowned, confused as her mind caught on that one word. "We?"
Before the giant could answer, a new sound filled the air. A deep, roaring boom came from above. Following his unseen gaze, she looked up...and her eyes widened in shock.
The heavens were bleeding fire.
Dozens of bright, orange streaks raced down toward the earth, slicing through the clouds like fiery comets as they hurtled towards Wakefield. Something unseen seemed to slow them down just before they crashed into the ground across the village with earth-shattering force, sending plumes of dirt into the air and making the ground shake beneath her.
The objects hissed, their metal hides blowing off with violent force, and from these fallen stars, more armored figures appeared.
They were warriors in dark grey and black plating, wearing helmets with silver visors and carrying similar weapons as her savior. While they were no giants, they carried themselves with the same discipline and purpose as they spread out into the village. Soon, the air became filled with more thunder-like crackles and explosions.
Grace stared, her mind struggling to comprehend the sight before her.
Then, it clicked. The rumors, she began to remember.
Grace recalled the whispers in the Starry Night, the hushed stories shared by travelers and merchants from the distant territories and towns of Eostia. They spoke of 'warriors from the heavens' who had started appearing a month ago. Beings in strange armor who fell from the sky to fight the dark forces with weapons that spat fire before disappearing as mysteriously as they came.
At first, she had dismissed them as the ramblings of drunken fools and men who had spent too much time in the sun. But as she looked at her green-armored savior and then at the sky raining fire, she processed the truth.
The rumors were true. They were real.
Grace swallowed hard. At that moment, she realized her world would never be the same. The Legion had come to destroy her home, but something else, something colder and much more powerful, had come to stop them.
As the black-armored warriors charged into the fray, their weapons clearing the streets with devastating efficiency while the green-armored giant stood calmly beside her, Grace Campbell felt a strange hope begin to grow amid the ruins of her life.
The fire in the sky wasn't there to burn Wakefield. It was there to burn their enemies. The stars had finally answered her prayer.
The warriors from the heavens were here…and they had come to save them all.