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Anarchist Time Knights – Day 10: Knight’s Rift

Tobal strained with both hands on glowing lines of living rope, his boots braced on frost-rimed stone, the ravine shuddering under a dawn sky streaked with gold and jagged violet, living fog swirling thick through the fractures. The air bit—cold with frost and a sour tang of splitting earth—his blue militia coat torn at the shoulder, blood streaking the fabric as he pulled with a hoarse grunt. His scarred face twisted with effort, short dark hair slick with sweat, the medallion blazing gold against his chest, its hum surging wild through his pounding heart as he stretched one rope toward another.

Fiona wrestled two flailing flux lines, her tattered sky blue gown snagged on a jutting rock, swaying as the ground bucked beneath her. Her chestnut hair whipped loose, matted with dust, golden threads flaring bright as she pulled the flux strands toward each other—the edges glowed, living ropes of light pulsing, surrounded by smaller flux lines snapping like loose threads. Her breath rasped quick, eyes darting as she drew the strands closer, her lean frame trembling with the strain. Rafe hauled two living ropes with both hands, his wiry frame taut in a faded green and gray cloak—his teeth clenched, a sharp laugh breaking through as he yanked the ropes together again after they’d pulled apart, boots slipping on frost, eyes flashing with a wild spark.

Becca yanked two flux lines tight, her torn cloak of deep brown and russet flapping as she dodged a falling rock, a low curse slipping out. Her red hair plastered with sweat across her brow, she twisted the flux toward a glowing rope—her breath puffed hard, muscles flexing as she pulled the strands into alignment, her frame weaving through the chaos with fierce grit. Cal pulled two glowing ropes together, his tangled brown hair slick with frost, twisting the flux into place with both hands—his wiry frame leaned hard, urgent focus in his pale eyes, a grunt escaping as he drew the ropes shut.

Valentine snapped at a flailing flux, his shaggy gray-brown fur bristling, paws skidding on stone—a sharp bark echoed as he lunged, teeth grazing the light, tail stiff with alarm. The ravine groaned—frost shattered underfoot, the wind howling with a hum of rupture, the rift’s shimmer straining, its edges glowing with living ropes and thrashing flux.

Tobal stretched across the rift, one glowing rope in each hand, the pulse spiking under his feet—harsh, living—shaking the stone as he bridged the gap. The air churned—thick with frost and a faint metallic sting—gold light piercing through the fog. He lurched—eyes locking on the Knights—his voice a raw shout, splitting the chaos. “It’s breaking!” The medallion flared on his chest—gold light spilling wild—his scarred hands tightened on the ropes, a surge of will threading his pulse. A flux line snapped free—a crack strained—his chest heaved.

Rafe stumbled back, both ropes burning his palms as he laughed, voice tight. “Is it breaking or us?” His tone cracked—sharp, breathless—hauling the ropes together again after they’d pulled apart, Valentine’s barks doubling as the dog dodged a flux line’s lash. Rafe braced his feet, his lean frame yanking the strands shut as the fog thickened, the ropes trembling in his grip.

Fiona drew her flux lines closer, golden threads flaring as she pulled them toward a main strand, binding the rift’s edge. “Hold it!” she yelled—voice ragged, fierce—her gaze slicing to Rafe, her hands straining to knot the flux, the cold searing her skin as she wove them shut. Her eyes caught Tobal’s—a flash of fire sparking—her frame shook as the rift roared, flux lines thrashing. A shimmer strained—near, violent—her breath hitched, jaw locked.

Becca ducked a tumbling stone, hauling her flux lines hard, twisting them toward a glowing rope with a snarl. “Pull it shut!” Her shout rang—urgent, raw—her sharp gaze cutting to Cal, sweat streaking her face as she drew the strands together, boots sliding on frost. The rift’s hum thundered—near, living—she hauled back, the ropes straining in her hands.

Cal stretched his ropes across the rift, his wiry frame braced as he pulled with both hands, twisting a flux line into alignment. “Bind it!” His voice snapped—high, steady—his damp hair whipping as he yanked the strands shut, hands trembling with effort. The hum roared—deep, living—his pale eyes flared, a spark of grit holding as he bridged the gap.

Tobal lunged forward, medallion blazing on his chest as he stretched one rope toward the other, his scarred face pale with fury. “We can do it!” he bellowed—gruff, fierce—his hands pulling the ropes tight as Valentine howled, snapping at a loose flux. The medallion’s glow surged—its hum threading his shout—his chest burned, a raw will surging as he knotted the strands. A gust tore the fog—gold pierced through—Cal’s ropes brushed his, a shared strength flaring as they pulled the sides together.

Valentine barked—wild, frantic—paws skidding as a flux line lashed near, fur streaked with frost. Tobal hauled the ropes, his scarred hands bleeding—something fierce roared in his gut, a snarl of survival rising as he twisted them shut. “Close it!” Rafe yelled—voice pitching high—his frame lunging to draw his ropes together again, binding them with a grunt. The rift yielded—gold light piercing shadow—Fiona’s threads flared, lashing the strands—her voice broke the wind. “Now!” Tobal’s gaze struck Rafe—hard, living—his roar raw. “Seal the rift!” He threw his weight back—fingers tearing on the ropes—the wind screaming as the glowing strands knit shut.

The dawn flared—gold slashed the ravine, fog shredding as the rift’s pulse went quiet, flux lines calming. A deep groan faded—slow, dying—Becca’s grip held, her breath ragged as she steadied Fiona, the last flux twisted tight. Tobal knotted his ropes—medallion glowing faint on his chest—his hold iron, a hum fading in his ears, his scarred face slick with sweat and purpose as the glowing strands fused. “We rebuilt it,” he rasped—voice torn, firm—frost stinging his throat. Cal’s hands dropped—a shaky laugh breaking—a quiet strength rooting as the rift stood sealed.

The rift’s shimmer dulled, its edges softening as the living ropes went still, their glow dimming slow. Fiona slumped back, threads dimming—gold shimmering faintly—her gaze flicked to Becca, dawn light catching the strain on her face as she released the ropes. “It’s ours,” Becca muttered—voice rough, sure—her frame slumping as she wiped her brow, the living ropes fading like whispers. The rift pulsed once—faint, living—then quieted, its form blurring as if dissolving into the stone, slowly fading away as though it had never been there. Fiona’s hair fell still, a faint tremor in her hands as she nodded, a soft breath escaping. “Sealed tight.”

Rafe sprawled back—panting, grinning—his cloak snagged on stone, wiry frame buzzing with relief as he flexed his hands, the rift’s last shimmer gone from sight. “Gone like a bad dream,” he said, voice low, a chuckle threading through. Tobal sank to one knee—medallion steady—wind whispering low, a hum of survival threading near, now softening to silence, a promise of what’s held and healed. The Knights stood—scarred, living—dawn steadying over the ravine, the air clear, the rift’s trace fading into nothing, as if it had never torn the world.

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Anarchist Time Knights – Day 6: Knight’s Echo

[Image: A storm-scarred plateau at dawn, cracked earth steaming under a sky bruised with fading purple and rising gold. Tobal’s scarred face gleams with sweat under a worn blue militia coat, medallion pulsing soft gold. Fiona’s sky blue gown hangs tattered on her lean frame, chestnut hair tangled and still, golden threads humming low. Rafe’s wiry frame slouches in a patched cloak of faded green and gray, grin faint. Becca’s red hair tangles wildly under a cloak of deep brown and russet, eyes sharp. Valentine’s shaggy gray-brown fur bristles as he sniffs the air—vivid, tense, with the distant hiss of retreating scales]

Tobal stood on the plateau’s edge, boots crunching cracked earth still warm from the night’s storm, steam curling faint around his legs. The dawn sky stretched bruised—purple fading into gold—casting a thin light over the jagged scars of battle, mud streaked with green-black blood. His blue militia coat—torn at the sleeve—hung damp and heavy on his broad frame, his scarred face gleaming with sweat, short dark hair clinging wet to his brow. The medallion in his hand pulsed a soft gold, its warmth a steady throb against his calloused palm, stirring a quiet ache of hunger that lingered from the fight.

Fiona stood close, her sky blue gown tattered and clinging to her lean frame, mud caked along the hem where it brushed crushed stone. Her chestnut hair lay tangled and still, strands stuck to her sharp cheeks, golden threads humming low in her steady fingers—her breath rasped soft, sharp with the tang of wet earth, her lithe form taut with a flicker of resolve, eyes scanning the horizon’s haze. Rafe slouched a step back, his wiry frame loose in a patched cloak of faded green and gray, wool stiff with dried rain—his grin flickered faint, a sly edge cutting his thin face as he twirled his knife, dawn glinting off the blade. Becca flanked him, her cloak of deep brown and russet streaked with mud, red hair tangled wildly under the hood—her fierce eyes glinted, catching the rising gold, her sturdy curves braced against the morning chill, she breathed a low hiss of pride. Valentine paced ahead, his shaggy gray-brown fur bristling, coarse and damp as he sniffed the air—his growl rumbled low, fading into the plateau’s hush.

The plateau sprawled raw—cracked earth hissed with steam, faint echoes of reptilian hisses retreating into the ravine below, their green-black trails smearing the mud. Tobal shifted, his chest tightening as a distant scrape pricked his ears—faint, fleeting—blending with the wind’s low moan. The air hung thick—earth-scented, cool—dawn pressing in like a held breath. He turned—eyes sweeping the Knights—his voice a low rasp, rough against the stillness. “They’re pulling back.” The medallion pulsed—gold light spilling soft—his scarred hand steadied, though his pulse thrummed with a restless edge. A stone clattered far off—a bird’s cry cut the haze—his breath caught.

Rafe tilted his head, cloak tugging at his wiry shoulders, his grin thinning as his breath fogged faintly in the chill. “Them? Running already?” He flicked his knife—a faint hiss answered from the ravine—Valentine’s ears twitched, his damp fur bristling as he let out a soft whine. Rafe’s laugh rasped—dry, sharp—his lean hand steadying as the wind moaned, carrying a distant snarl.

Fiona stepped closer, gown snagging on a jagged rock, threads weaving a soft arc of gold that shivered in the dawn. “They’re stronger than us,” she said—voice low, clear—her gaze piercing Rafe’s, though her fingers curled tight, the chill biting her knuckles. Her chestnut hair stayed still, pressed flat by damp, and her eyes met Tobal’s—a shared fire threading alive between them, her lean grace sparking a quiet ache. A tail scraped below—faint, retreating—her jaw tightened, breath steady with resolve.

Becca crossed her arms, red hair sticking under her russet hood, her voice sharp but softened as the wind tugged her cloak. “Stronger? Then why are they retreating?” She kicked a shard of stone—her fierce eyes narrowed—glancing from Fiona to Tobal, pride flickering in her gaze, her shapely form coiled with restless heat. A low growl faded—distant, broken—her breath eased, slow and sharp, the chill prickling her lips.

Tobal sank to one knee—coat brushing the cracked earth—his free hand settling on Valentine’s flank, the dog’s coarse fur warm as he pressed close, tail slowing. “We will rest later,” he said—gruff, low—his scarred face tilting to Becca’s, eyes dark with a fire that burned deep, his broad build radiating a quiet power. “Watch their retreat.” The medallion’s glow deepened—its hum threading his voice—his chest burned, a fierce pulse of hunger he couldn’t quell. A shadow shifted below—steam hissed—Becca’s stance softened, her shoulders easing as the sound drifted, leaving only the wind’s sigh.

Valentine nosed forward—mud crunched—a soft bark cut the air as he sniffed a reptilian trail, fur bristling. Tobal rose, medallion steady, his scarred face hardening—something cold twisted in his gut, bitter as the dawn, a low growl of anger beneath it. “What’s that!” Rafe muttered—half a laugh—his knife twirling as he stepped forward, wiry frame taut with a flicker of thrill. A faint hiss curled up—distant, fading—Fiona’s threads pulsed, gold threading boldly—her voice steady as stone. “Hold your ground.” Tobal’s gaze struck Rafe—hard, fierce—his growl a whisper. “Sense them.” He stepped toward the edge—boots grinding—the wind curling tighter, thick with earth and echoes.

The haze thickened—steam rose from the cracks, reptilian trails fading into the ravine’s depths, their shadows a whisper of the night’s fury. Cal—a wiry Knight with tangled brown hair—stumbled, his breath a ragged gasp, eyes wide where a claw mark gleamed in the mud. Tobal’s hand clamped his shoulder—medallion blazing soft—his grip iron, though his own pulse raced, a scrape in the distance spiking his ears, his broad chest tight with a flicker of dread. “Breathe,” he murmured—voice low, rough—earth sharp in his throat. Cal’s chest shuddered—his eyes squeezed shut—then opened, fiercer, a faint spark of pride catching as a bird’s wing fluttered overhead.

Fiona’s threads wove wider—gold flickering like a breath—her gaze slid to Becca, the dawn’s chill cutting her lean face. “Why the retreat?” Becca asked—voice softer—her edge blunted, almost lost in the haze, her sturdy form trembling with a mix of rage and hope. A stone rolled below—closer, then gone—Fiona’s lips curved, just a breath—chestnut hair still and damp. “To run—to live.” Rafe’s laugh rasped—dry, warm—his knife stilling as he brushed mud off his cloak, wiry frame alive with a reckless spark. Tobal nodded—medallion pulsing—wind curling low, a faint rumble rolling distant, a whisper of what’s next. The Knights stood—scarred, steady—echoes fading into the dawn.

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[Image: A jagged ravine under a stormy sky, dark clouds churning with streaks of lightning, the air thick with the metallic tang of rain. Tobal’s scarred face glints with sweat under a worn blue militia coat, his medallion flaring gold in his grip. Fiona’s sky blue gown clings damp to her lean frame, chestnut hair plastered to her forehead, golden threads pulsing vivid. Rafe’s wiry frame braces in a patched cloak of faded green and gray, grin tight. Becca’s red hair sticks wet under a cloak of deep brown and russet, eyes fierce. Valentine’s shaggy gray-brown fur drips as he growls low—vivid, tense, with the clash of steel and scales echoing in the storm]

Tobal stood at the ravine’s edge, boots sinking into cracked, muddy earth, the storm’s wind lashing his broad frame with cold rain. Jagged rocks rose sharp around him, slick with wet, their edges glinting under a sky roiled with dark clouds and streaking lightning. His blue militia coat—worn and patched—soaked through, clung heavy to his powerful shoulders, his scarred face glistening with sweat and rain, short dark hair plastered flat. The medallion in his hand flared a sharp gold, its heat biting his calloused palm—a jolt that thrummed in his chest, raw and fierce, heavy with resolve.

Fiona braced beside him, her sky blue gown clinging damp to her lean frame, mud streaking the hem where it dragged over broken shale. Her chestnut hair stuck to her forehead, wet strands framing her sharp, pale face, golden threads pulsing vividly in her trembling fingers—her breath came quick, sharp with the metallic tang of rain, her lithe form taut with defiance, eyes locked on the ravine’s depths. Rafe hunched a step back, his wiry frame taut in a patched cloak of faded green and gray, soaked wool slapping his thin legs—his grin tightened, teeth flashing, a sly edge to his wiry build as he gripped his knife, rain dripping off his nose. Becca stood firm, her cloak of deep brown and russet sodden and dark, red hair plastered wet under the hood—her fierce eyes narrowed, catching lightning’s flash, her sturdy curves braced against the storm, breath a hiss of fury. Valentine growled low ahead, his shaggy gray-brown fur dripping, coarse and matted as he crouched on the muddy ledge—his snarl rumbled, swallowed by thunder.

The ravine churned—rain lashed the rocks, a bitter wind howling through the narrow cut, carrying the stench of wet scales and blood. Tobal tensed, his gut coiling as shadows writhed below—reptilian forms, slick and gleaming, claws scraping stone—a pack slithering in the dark. Lightning cracked—scales flashed green-black—his pulse hammered, a primal itch flaring low. He turned—eyes raking the Knights—his voice a low growl, cutting through the storm. “They’re here.” The medallion flared—gold light slashing vivid—his scarred hand gripped tight, rain stinging his knuckles. A hiss slithered up—sharp, close—his breath snagged, thick with resolve.

Rafe shifted, boots slipping on shale, his grin thinning as rain streaked his wiry frame. “Those? Just them with claws?” He flicked his knife—a claw scraped below—Valentine’s ears flattened, his wet fur bristling as he barked, sharp and fierce. Rafe’s laugh rasped—tight, edged—his lean hand steadying as thunder rolled, shaking the ground, a flicker of thrill in his sly eyes.

Fiona leaned forward, gown heavy with wet, threads weaving a vivid arc of gold that flickered in the storm. “They’re stronger than us,” she said—voice low, steady—her gaze piercing Rafe’s, though her fingers shook, rain biting her skin. Her chestnut hair clung flat—a gust tearing at it—and her eyes met Tobal’s, a shared fire threading alive between them, her lean grace sparking a quiet ache. A tail thrashed below—mud splashed—her jaw tightened, breath hitching with a raw edge.

Becca squared her shoulders, red hair dripping under her russet hood, her voice sharp but raw as the wind lashed her sturdy frame. “Stronger? I’d rather carve through them.” She drew her blade—steel glinting—glancing from Fiona to Tobal, fury flickering in her fierce eyes, her shapely form coiled with restless heat. A reptilian snarl echoed—close, guttural—her breath caught, quick and harsh, then steadied, rain stinging her cheeks.

Tobal dropped to a crouch—coat dragging in the mud—his free hand brushing Valentine’s flank, the dog’s wet fur warm as he pressed close, growling low. “This is time for fighting,” he said—gruff, low—his scarred face tilting to Becca’s, eyes dark with a fire that burned deep, his broad build radiating a quiet power. “Strike when they move.” The medallion’s glow sharpened—its hum threading his voice—his chest burned, a fierce pulse of hunger he couldn’t quell. A claw scraped louder—stone cracked—Becca’s blade steadied, her stance firm as the sound grew, rain pounding her shoulders.

Valentine lunged—mud splashed—a sharp bark tore the air as a reptilian shape loomed, scales gleaming wet. Tobal rose, medallion flaring, his scarred face hardening—something hot surged in his gut, bitter as the storm, a low growl of anger beneath it. “What’s that!” Rafe snapped—half a shout—his knife flashing as he stepped forward, wiry frame taut with a flicker of thrill. Lightning split the sky—a roar answered—Fiona’s threads pulsed, gold threading boldly—her voice steady as rock. “Hold your ground.” Tobal’s gaze struck Rafe—hard, fierce—his growl a whisper. “Sense them.” He lunged toward the shadow—boots slipping—the wind howling, thick with rain and rage.

The storm raged—shadows surged through the ravine, reptilian shapes slashing through mud and rain, claws glinting like steel. Cal—a wiry Knight with tangled brown hair—faltered, his breath a ragged gasp, eyes wide as a tail whipped close, spraying mud. Tobal’s hand clamped his shoulder—medallion blazing vivid—his grip iron, though his own pulse raced, a hiss in the dark spiking his ears, his broad chest tight with a flicker of dread. “Breathe it,” he murmured—voice low, rough—rain sharp in his throat. Cal’s chest shuddered—his eyes squeezed shut—then opened, fiercer, a faint spark of pride catching as a claw scraped near.

Fiona’s threads wove wider—gold flickering like a breath—her gaze slid to Becca, the storm’s chill cutting her lean face. “What’s the delay?” Becca asked—voice softer—her edge blunted, almost lost in the rain, her sturdy form trembling with a mix of rage and hope. A reptilian screech split the air—closer now—Fiona’s lips curved, just a breath—chestnut hair still and soaked. “To fight—to live.” Rafe’s laugh barked—harsh, wild—his knife slashing as a shadow lunged, rain streaming off his cloak, wiry frame alive with a reckless spark. Tobal nodded—medallion pulsing—wind howling low, thunder crashing close, a call to battle. The Knights braced—scarred, fierce—reptilian shadows thrashing in the storm.

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Anarchist Time Knights – Day 1: Knight’s Dawn

[Image: A jagged hill under a pale dawn, golden light streaking a sky of soft gray and hints of blue. Tobal’s scarred face glows with quiet resolve under a worn blue militia coat, medallion pulsing gold in his grip. Fiona’s sky blue gown sways on her lean frame, chestnut hair loose, golden threads humming soft. Rafe’s wiry frame leans sharp in a patched cloak of faded green and gray, grin sly. Becca’s red hair flares under a cloak of deep brown and russet, eyes fierce. Lucus stands broad in a gray leather vest, axe steady, jaw tight. Carla’s slim form shifts in a dark green cloak, fingers tracing a rune, gaze sharp. Cal’s tangled brown hair catches the wind under a patched hood, stance shaky. Valentine’s shaggy gray-brown fur ripples as he sniffs the air—vivid, tense, with the distant hiss of scales]

Tobal stood atop the jagged hill, boots crunching brittle grass, the pale dawn casting golden streaks across a sky of soft gray and hints of blue. The air bit cold—sharp with frost and the faint tang of iron—his blue militia coat, torn at the hem, swaying stiff on his broad frame. His scarred face glowed with quiet resolve, short dark hair damp with mist, the medallion in his hand pulsing a soft gold, its warmth threading through his calloused palm, stirring a flicker of hunger beneath his steady breath.

Fiona stood close, her sky blue gown swaying on her lean frame, the hem brushing frost-tipped grass. Her chestnut hair hung loose, catching the light, golden threads humming soft in her steady fingers—her breath fogged faint, laced with the chill, her lithe form taut with a quiet spark, eyes tracing the horizon’s edge. Rafe leaned sharp nearby, his wiry frame coiled in a patched cloak of faded green and gray, wool rough against his lean shoulders—his sly grin flickered, knife twirling in his hand, dawn glinting off the blade. Becca flanked him, her cloak of deep brown and russet snapping in the wind, red hair flaring wild—her fierce eyes burned, her sturdy curves firm with restless fire, she breathed a low hiss of defiance.

Lucus loomed solid, his broad frame steady in a gray leather vest, axe gripped tight, its edge catching the light—his jaw clenched, dark eyes scanning the haze, breath steady with a grunt of readiness. Carla shifted beside him, her slim form wrapped in a dark green cloak, fingers tracing a rune in the air—her sharp gaze darted, short black hair tucked under her hood, a faint hum of energy threading her quiet stance. Cal wavered a step back, his tangled brown hair whipping under a patched hood, wiry frame shaky—his breath rasped, eyes wide, a flicker of dread cutting his pale face. Valentine paced ahead, his shaggy gray-brown fur rippling, coarse and damp as he sniffed the air—his growl rumbled low, ears twitching at the distant hiss of scales.

The hill stretched raw—brittle grass crunched underfoot, the wind carrying a faint tremor of earth, a whisper of rifts unseen. Tobal shifted, his chest tightening as a shadow flickered far off—brief, sharp—blending with the dawn’s haze. The air hung cold—frost-scented, tense—light spilling soft over the jagged slope. He turned—eyes sweeping the Knights—his voice a low rasp, rough against the stillness. “They’re near.” The medallion pulsed—gold light spilling soft—his scarred hand steadied, a thread of resolve flaring in his pulse. A stone clattered below—a bird’s cry pierced the hush—his breath caught.

Rafe tilted his head, cloak tugging in the wind, his sly grin thinning as his breath fogged faint. “Them? Already?” He flipped his knife—a distant hiss answered—Valentine’s fur bristled, his growl sharpening as he pawed the ground. Rafe’s laugh rasped—dry, quick—his lean frame easing as the wind carried a low scrape.

Fiona stepped forward, gown snagging on a thorn, threads weaving a soft arc of gold that shivered in the dawn. “They’ve breached,” she said—voice low, clear—her gaze cutting to Rafe, fingers curling tight, the cold biting her knuckles. Her chestnut hair shifted, strands catching the mist, and her eyes met Tobal’s—a shared fire threading alive, her lean grace sparking a quiet ache. A scale scraped below—faint, close—her jaw tightened, breath steady with focus.

Becca crossed her arms, red hair whipping under her russet hood, her voice sharp but warm as the wind tugged her cloak. “Breached? Then we hit them.” She kicked a rock—her fierce eyes flashed—glancing from Fiona to Lucus, fire flickering in her gaze, her sturdy form coiled with restless heat. A low hiss rose—near, jagged—her breath steadied, the chill prickling her lips.

Lucus hefted his axe, gray vest creaking, his broad shoulders squaring as his breath huffed low. “Let’s crush ‘em,” he growled—voice deep, rough—his dark eyes narrowing, axe glinting as he shifted, a faint smirk tugging his lips. The ground trembled—subtle, sharp—his grip tightened, boots grinding the frost.

Carla’s rune flared, a faint gold pulse in her palm, her slim frame still as her sharp gaze swept the haze. “It’s a rift,” she murmured—voice soft, edged—her fingers tracing the air, the hum rising, her dark green cloak swaying. A shadow loomed—brief, reptilian—her breath hitched, eyes narrowing with a flicker of dread.

Cal stumbled back, hood slipping, his wiry frame trembling as his breath rasped fast. “Rift? Here?” His voice cracked—high, shaky—his tangled brown hair catching the wind, hands fumbling at his belt. A hiss curled closer—his eyes darted, a low whimper escaping as he froze.

Tobal sank to one knee—coat brushing the brittle grass—his free hand settling on Valentine’s flank, the dog’s coarse fur warm as he pressed close, growling low. “Hold steady,” he said—gruff, low—his scarred face tilting toward Cal, eyes dark with a fire that burned deep, his broad build radiating quiet strength. The medallion’s glow deepened—its hum threading his voice—his chest flared, a fierce resolve he couldn’t quell. A breeze stirred the grass—light flickered—Cal’s stance steadied, his breath slowing as the sound sharpened.

Valentine lunged forward—grass parted—a sharp bark split the air as he snapped at the haze, fur bristling. Tobal rose, medallion steady, his scarred face hardening—something cold twisted in his gut, a low growl of readiness beneath it. “They’re through!” Rafe called—half a laugh—his knife spinning as he stepped forward, wiry frame taut with a flicker of thrill. A reptilian hiss roared—close, alive—Fiona’s threads pulsed, gold threading boldly—her voice cut the wind. “Close it!” Tobal’s gaze struck Rafe—hard, fierce—his growl a rasp. “Sense the rift.” He stepped toward the hill’s edge—boots crunching—the wind curling tight, thick with frost and scales.

The dawn thickened—gold spilled over the hill, grass swaying in the breeze, the earth’s pulse trembling beneath their feet. A reptilian claw scraped—near, jagged—Lucus swung his axe, a grunt of effort as the blade bit air. Tobal’s hand clamped Cal’s shoulder—medallion blazing soft—his grip firm, though his own pulse raced, a hiss spiking his ears, his broad chest tight with a flicker of thrill. “Breathe,” he murmured—voice low, rough—frost sharp in his throat. Cal’s chest heaved—his eyes squeezed shut—then opened, a faint spark of grit catching as the hiss grew louder.

Fiona’s threads wove wider—gold flickering like a breath—her gaze slid to Becca, the dawn’s chill brushing her lean face. “Where’s the rift?” Becca asked—voice sharp—her edge honed, her sturdy form trembling with fire and focus. A scale glinted below—close, slick—Fiona’s lips curved, just a breath—chestnut hair lifting in the wind. “Beneath us.” Rafe’s laugh rang—dry, warm—his knife stilling as he crouched, wiry frame alive with a reckless spark. Tobal nodded—medallion pulsing—wind curling low, a reptilian snarl rising near, a whisper of what’s next. The Knights stood—scarred, steady—dawn breaking over the hill.

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