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    Chapter 34


    Friend? or Foe?


    The battlefield pulses with the rhythm of war—a


    brutal symphony of steel, screams, and searing magic. Selene moves with


    practiced ease, each step deliberate, her boots whispering over worn


    cobblestones as she weaves through the chaos.


    The night air is thick, heavy with the acrid


    stench of blood and burning magic. It clings to her throat, metallic and


    bitter. To her left, steel clashes against steel. To her right, a wet gurgle is


    cut short. The battle surges like a tide, crashing and retreating in violent


    waves.


    Vampires blur past, their movements too fast for


    the eye to follow. Crimson eyes gleam in the dim light—predatory, starving.


    Fangs flash white against the dark, claws carving deep lines into stone.


    Selene doesn’t flinch.


    She doesn’t have the luxury.


    Not now.


    Then—


    A shout.


    <b>“INCOMING!”</b>


    A streak of violet and gold arcs across the sky


    before crashing down in a deafening explosion. The impact sends a shockwave


    rippling through the ground, rattling up Selene’s spine. She barely shifts. No


    time for flinching.


    A crackle of static buzzes in her earpiece. Then


    Bob’s voice, flat and metallic, but tinged with his usual, almost endearing


    confusion.


    <b>“Selene, you copy? I, uh… commandeered one of


    the floating rocks. Not sure why everyone keeps calling it a platform, but it’s


    done. Coming in hot—about to rain hell on the undead.”</b>


    Selene tilts her head, eyes narrowing at the


    shifting movement in her periphery—a massive slab of stone drifting into view,


    impossibly weightless. Time and magic have smoothed its surface, its chipped


    edges whispering of an ancient past. It glides with an eerie grace, casting


    jagged shadows over the battlefield below.


    At its center crouches Bob’s latest insult to


    logic—a haphazard contraption of gears, enchanted pistons, and whatever scrap


    he could scavenge. The construct wheezes and clanks, its exposed mechanisms


    venting bursts of arcane steam. By all reasoning, it should collapse under its


    own absurdity. And yet, it thrums with purpose, a testament to Bob’s


    infuriating ability to make the impossible work.


    Surrounding it, his clockwork soldiers march in


    perfect sync. The artillery maids—so named for their prim, lace-trimmed aprons,


    a stark contrast to the cold precision in their glass eyes—snap their rifles


    into place with mechanical efficiency. The sharp scent of oiled metal and


    alchemical residue lingers, threading through the battlefield’s chaos.


    At the platform’s edges, automaton butlers stand


    rigid, their posture impeccable despite the war raging below. Their arms,


    replaced from the elbow down with polished brass wind turbines, spin in a


    steady blur. Each subtle tilt and shift keeps the floating slab balanced, an


    intricate dance of weight and propulsion.


    Selene exhales, caught between admiration and


    frustration. Bob’s creations have always defied reason—part brilliance, part


    catastrophe, equal measures of elegance and madness. But as the platform looms


    overhead, its shadow flickering across the ruins below, she can’t deny one


    thing.


    It works.


    Of course, Bob had to be the one to


    "commandeer" it. Selene didn’t know the automaton well—only enough to


    recognize his flair for the dramatic. But this? This was more than theatrics.


    The platform hovers closer, and she spots Bob.


    His mechanical face, locked in a perpetual state of confusion, is highlighted


    by large, bulbous eyes blinking erratically. Even in the heat of battle, it’s


    almost comical. Almost.


    “Fire!” he shouts.


    The artillery maids unleash their assault.


    A barrage of crackling energy erupts from the


    platform, each shot striking with ruthless precision. The battlefield lights up


    in a blinding cascade, vaporizing swathes of undead in a single, calculated


    bombardment. The necromantic mages, barely holding their barriers together, are


    caught in the blasts'' edges. The earth beneath them liquefies, molten stone


    glowing beneath the chaos.


    Selene’s pulse spikes.


    “NO!”


    She slaps the earpiece. “BOB!” Her gaze never


    leaves the platform. “Not the damn mages!”


    A pause. Then Bob’s voice crackles through,


    clearer now.


    “Come again? I think you’re cutting out. Swore


    you just said not to hit the undead mages.”


    “They’re not the enemy!”


    The battlefield shifts in the wake of


    destruction. Smoke and light ripple across the ruins. Every vampire within


    three hundred feet is reduced to dust, their forms dissolving in the


    brilliance.


    All except the mages.


    Selene grits her teeth. The necromancers were


    holding something back—binding it, containing it. Whatever lay beneath them


    wasn’t meant to be freed. If their spell broke, if their concentration wavered…


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    But Bob—Bob wasn’t the type to wait for a


    thank-you.


    A strange silence follows the barrage, thick and


    unnatural. The smell of charred earth lingers in the air.


    Then, Bob’s voice buzzes through the comms,


    casual as ever.


    “Not bad, huh? Still prefer the sound of a chisel


    on stone. Or a good grinder on metal. But hey, that’s just me.”


    A thunderous roar shakes the battlefield,


    reverberating through the air like a distant storm. From above, the AAC


    adventurers descend—some rappelling down from the floating platform with


    practiced ease, others gliding through the air like falling embers, magic


    cradling them in weightless arcs. But they aren''t the only ones coming down.


    From the heavens, metal bodies plummet like


    meteors, each impact sending tremors through the earth. Knight Constructs, clad


    in enchanted steel, rise from the craters they create. Their mechanical eyes


    gleam cold and calculating. Without hesitation, they move in perfect formation,


    cutting through the vampire ranks with ruthless precision—each movement a


    flawless blend of magic and machinery.


    Then, another roar, raw and primal.


    Selene barely has time to look up before she sees


    him—K’sharr, the Pantherkin mercenary, a blur of muscle and steel at the head


    of a fresh charge. His twin blades gleam like fangs in the moonlight, his


    movements fluid, effortless.


    But something feels off.


    Her breath catches. The mercenaries aren''t alone.


    Among them, throngs of undead and demons from the


    previous battle surge forward, their twisted forms moving in eerie synchrony


    with the living.


    Selene''s pulse falters. "What in the


    Aether…?"


    A memory stirs—her mother’s voice, crisp as


    parchment turning beneath her fingers.


    "The enemy of my enemy..."


    Lyra’s voice echoes in her mind, finishing the


    thought.


    "...Is a friend."


    Selene swallows, unease coiling in her gut.


    Temporary alliances had been made on stranger battlefields, but this... this


    was different.


    “On Garik!” K’sharr bellows, his voice cutting


    through the chaos like a war horn.


    Garik plants his feet, the hammer resting lazily


    over his shoulder. He throws his head back, laughter booming through the night.


    “Gru! You overly beautiful lass of an ogre—give our guest a proper


    introduction!”


    A shadow falls behind him.


    Gru, a towering force of nature, steps forward.


    Her war cry splits the air like thunder. “COME AT ME!”


    For a moment, the battlefield stills.


    Then, like puppets pulled by invisible strings,


    the vampires snap their heads toward her. Crimson eyes flare with hunger.


    Without hesitation, they abandon all other prey and charge, their shrieks a


    frantic symphony of hunger.


    Balanced atop her broad shoulders, Tibbins lets


    out a long, suffering sigh, adjusting his crossbow. “Oh, boiy… Here we go


    again.” With the ease of someone long accustomed to chaos, he loads a grenade


    into an impromptu slingshot.


    Her squad—or rather, Garik’s squad, the Relic


    Hunters—moves as one. Each member plays their part with ruthless efficiency,


    cutting through the frenzy with practiced ease.


    To her left, Garik is a force of nature. His


    massive warhammer swings through the fray, each blow landing with a thunderous


    crack. Vampires are sent flying like broken dolls, their bodies crumbling into


    dust. His arms strain with each strike, veins taut with effort, but he never


    slows. Rage fuels him, a relentless fire burning in every movement.


    To her right, Tibbins and Gru turn the


    battlefield into a twisted game—a deadly contest of precision and chaos.


    Gru, a wall of muscle and fury, wields her club


    with terrifying ease. With a single-handed swing, she sends vampires crashing


    through the air, her strikes landing with bone-crushing finality. Each impact


    leaves the ground slick with ruin.


    A vampire lunges, sinking its fangs into her


    thick shoulder. Gru barely glances at it before flicking it off with a casual


    thumb. “Hey, that’s no way to treat a lady,” she grumbles. The creature hisses,


    writhing on the ground. Gru snorts. “Stupid bloodsucker. Ogres are immune to


    your charms.”


    Tibbins, quick as torchlight, perches on Gru’s


    shoulder, moving with effortless agility. “How rude,” he mutters, lobbing a


    grenade with expert aim. It detonates in a blinding flash, sending vampires


    stumbling. He tuts as he reloads his slingshot crossbow. “Didn’t anyone teach


    you proper etiquette? You’re supposed to wait your turn. This one’s my dance


    partner.”


    Gru laughs, bringing her club down in a


    devastating arc. The two move together in eerie harmony, a dance of destruction


    played to the rhythm of war.


    Lyra stands behind her, her staff crackling with


    raw, untamed energy. The air shimmers, warped by her magic, her eyes burning


    with a dangerous, steady glow. Every motion is precise—effortless. She deflects


    incoming strikes with ease, the hiss of her magic blending with the clash of


    steel.


    With each counter, her staff leaves a trail of


    frost, cutting through the battlefield’s oppressive heat like a blade of


    winter. Ice blooms across her enemies as it strikes, freezing vampires


    mid-motion. But Lyra’s magic doesn’t stop there—each strike sends waves of


    healing and protection to her allies. A perfect balance of destruction and


    restoration.


    Selene smiles. Offensive spells were never Lyra’s


    strength, nor brute-force defense. But support magic? Enchantments? She thrives


    in them. The youngest master of Runecrafting, a prodigy in hand-to-hand


    combat—some even call her a monk.


    Mother always said Elara would inherit the title


    of Merlin, but we too would find our calling.


    Selene watches as Lyra moves, her magic shaping


    the battlefield, guiding the tide of battle with quiet, unwavering grace.


    I believe Lyra has found hers.


    Selene doesn’t hear it coming. One second, she’s


    steady; the next—impact. A force slams into her back, knocking the breath from


    her lungs.


    Cold breath brushes her neck. Fangs hover inches


    from her skin.


    Then—wet heat.


    A thick, viscous warmth drips down her


    collarbone. But there’s no pain, no tearing bite.


    Instead, a low growl rumbles behind her. Not the


    deep, predatory kind, but something oddly playful—like a pup gnawing on its


    favorite chew toy, shaking it back and forth.


    She lifts her gaze.


    A crimson Fell-Hound looms over her, the limp


    remains of a vampire dangling half-swallowed in its maw.


    Selene exhales, tension bleeding from her limbs.


    Even Lyra’s Fell-Hounds—beasts bound to her


    through dark rites—tear into the undead with reckless abandon. Their massive


    jaws snap and crush, sinking into vampire flesh before spitting it out in


    disgust. The tainted blood is bitter, even to them. Their glowing eyes gleam


    with ruthless intent as they rip and tear, hunting for their next prey.