The dome did not announce itself. It simply enclosed the Spero Estate—an absolute black curvature swallowing light and sound alike, pressing down over the grounds like a second sky. From within, it felt less like a barrier and more like a presence, something that refused to let the world beyond it matter.
At the very apex of the Spero Estate, where the highest structure cut closest to that unnatural ceiling, two figures stood.
The girl balanced at the edge. Barefoot against the cold stone, her posture remained steady despite the faint tremor running through her arms. Threads of Essence energy extended from her fingers—not violently, but in quiet, controlled flows that spread outward and vanished into the dome above.
Behind her stood a familiar figure, his hands clasped loosely at his back. He was watching the dome's reaction rather than the attacks below. He wore that same signature patchwork coat.
"You've done well, Dove," he said, voice warm, a faint smile touching his lips. "Careful… keep this up and I'll start thinking you don't need me anymore."
Dove didn't turn.
"They're trying to attack the barrier from outside," she said, her gaze fixed upward.
The man smiled—warm, fatherly, unmistakably proud.
"They won't be able to break it, Dove," he said. "You've become so strong."
A pause, then his smile deepened, pride sharpening beneath it. His eyes flicked outward, past Dove—past the curvature of the dome—to where Pond cadets and Spero guards hammered against it from outside. Among them, Ravion stood, striking with relentless force.
"You even managed to cast it in a way that keeps all the border forces outside."
Dove's fingers adjusted slightly—precise, controlled. Her expression remained flat, distant.
Another impact struck the barrier. It held.
"They won't stop," Dove said.
"They can try," he replied softly.
His gaze drifted again, this time downward, through the height of the Spero Estate, toward the fractured grounds below—the path of destruction already carved, and the devastation yet to come.
A quiet chuckle slipped from him, low and measured.
"Do you hear it, Dove?" he murmured. "The anticipation. The fear trying to outrun inevitability." His eyes gleamed faintly.
He exhaled, almost content.
"I…," he continued, voice calm, clinical. "..really love this emotion."
Another distant crash echoed below.
"And now," he added, the faintest edge of satisfaction curling into his tone, "we observe what happens when perfection is finally allowed to breathe."
Inside the Spero Estate, Smoke was there.
Then the smoke pulled inward.
Not by wind. By force.
At its center, the air bent inward, tightening as if gripped by something unseen. The distortion pulsed once, then again—before splitting open into a jagged tear that carved through the haze. Pressure spilled out with it, sharp enough to fracture the marble below into thin, branching cracks.
Something forced through.
It didn't emerge so much as arrive all at once.
Limbs lashed out in the same instant—long, misshapen, snapping into existence across the chamber. One struck a guard square in the torso, folding him backward and sending him skidding across the floor. Another coiled around a second man and hurled him into a pillar, stone shattering on impact. A third shot past the front line entirely, dragging someone screaming into the distortion before the sound cut off.
The hits landed together—no sequence, no delay—just simultaneous violence erupting across the room before anyone could react.
Then the rest of it followed.
Mass pushed through the tear, unstable and shifting, its form refusing to settle as multiple limbs anchored into the ground with heavy, cracking impacts. Its torso expanded and compressed unevenly, like something still deciding what shape to hold, while a low, layered growl rolled out—several voices overlapping through one throat.
The creature displaced.
Not movement—replacement.
It was suddenly inside the front line.
The impact burst outward in a single, crushing moment. Two guards were hit at once—one driven straight into the marble as it cratered beneath him, the other thrown back into the far wall. The shockwave followed immediately, tearing through the chamber—tables overturning, glass shattering, banners ripping loose in its wake.
"FORM UP—! HOLD FORMATION—!" Allistair's command cut through the chaos.
The Spero guards locked together on instinct, shields rising, spears braced as lines of energy flickered between them into a defensive lattice. Behind them, Commander Varrus dragged a POND cadet back by the collar, cutting off the unstable energy building in his hands before it could spiral out of control.
The creature hit again.
Not in strikes—but in one continuous burst of force.
Multiple limbs drove forward together, slamming into the formation at the same time. The first shield collapsed instantly. The second flared under the pressure, holding only long enough to force the guards backward, boots carving into marble as the entire line bent under a single, overwhelming push.
The formation broke.
A limb slipped through the failing gap, narrowing and sharpening mid-motion as it shot past the shields toward the exposed rear—toward Lyra.
She didn't move in time.
Darian was already there.
He stepped in front of her just as the strike connected. It didn't just hit—it drove through his guard with brutal force, the impact twisting his arms as the sharpened limb scraped and tore across his hands before carving into his side. Skin split under the pressure, blood spilling instantly, hot and vivid against the smoke-filled air.
A sharp breath caught in Lyra's throat.
"Darian—"
The word broke out of her, uneven, startled, too late.
The force shoved him back a step, marble fracturing beneath his heel, but he didn't fall. His hands trembled under the strain, blood slicking his grip where he held the limb at bay, the surface of it writhing as if trying to push deeper through him.
He held.
His stance locked despite the damage, shoulders braced, teeth clenched as he forced the strike off its line—just enough.
Just enough for it to miss Lyra entirely.
For a moment, everything narrowed to that single clash—pressure, resistance, the wet drag of blood slipping from his hands and side.
Then he pushed back.
The limb shifted, recoiling slightly under the resistance.
Only then did Darian glance over his shoulder, breath rough, voice tight but steady.
"…You okay?"
Lyra stared at him for a second, eyes wide, still catching up to what had just happened. Her gaze flickered to his hands—bloodied, shaking—and then to the wound at his side.
"I—yeah… I'm fine," she managed, though her voice came out quieter than usual. "You're not."
A faint crease formed between her brows, something unsettled slipping through her composure as she stepped closer, instinct pulling her forward despite the chaos.
Behind them, Elara lowered her arm. She had already been moving—already preparing to intercept the strike—but Darian had gotten there first. For a brief second, her gaze lingered on him, measuring. The tension in her stance eased, if only slightly, the sharp edge of her earlier judgment softening as she took in the way he held the line despite the damage.
"…Hmph."
It wasn't approval. But it wasn't dismissal either. Then her focus snapped back to the battlefield.
The distortion hadn't closed.
It pulsed—once, twice—before tearing wider, its edges stretching like fabric forced beyond its limit. From within, shapes moved. Not uniform, not disciplined—erratic silhouettes that slipped through the rupture one after another.
They landed hard across the estate grounds.
Not soldiers.
Criminals.
Bounty hunters.
Scarred faces, mismatched armor, weapons of all kinds—some refined, others crude but lethal. Their eyes scanned the chaos for one thing only.
Lyra.
A low murmur spread through them, greedy and sharp.
"Found her."
"Big payday."
"Don't let the others take her first."
Varus stepped forward, voice cutting through the noise with command sharpened by urgency. "Cadets—engage. Defensive formation. Priority is Lyra Spero."
The Pond cadets moved at once, hesitation burned away under pressure. Lines formed, imperfect but determined, as they surged to intercept the incoming wave.
From the opposite side, Alistair advanced with the Spero guards, their formation far tighter, movements precise and practiced. "Push them back," he ordered calmly. "Contain and eliminate."
Steel met steel. Gunfire cracked through the air. Energy clashed against energy as the battlefield fractured into a dozen smaller fights.
Orion didn't wait for structure. He launched himself straight into the fray, fist colliding with a hunter's jaw with enough force to snap the man off his feet. He pivoted instantly, ducking under a blade and driving an elbow into another attacker's ribs, momentum never breaking.
Nearby, Valer Spero found himself locked against a different kind of opponent—a man whose body gleamed with cybernetic reinforcement. Metal plating ran along his arms, joints hissing softly with each movement. His strikes were precise, mechanical, and brutally efficient.
Valer barely caught the first blow, the impact reverberating up his arm. The man didn't pause—another strike followed immediately, faster, heavier.
A skilled one.
Valer adjusted his stance, eyes narrowing as he met the rhythm head-on.
"Ya'll picked the wrong house."