HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The horn did not announce itself—it invaded.

It split the world with a sound so ancient it felt less like a signal and more like a wound opening across the night. The canvas walls shivered. The flame in the lamp guttered, spitting shadows that jittered across every surface. Ryon felt it ripple through him, not in his ears but in his blood, as though his bones themselves were struck hollow and rung like bells.

The sound dragged on too long, a mournful, low note that rolled from horizon to horizon, then cut sharply—leaving a silence so vast it seemed louder than the horn itself.

In that silence, he realized three things at once: his breath was shallow and pained; Mira's hands were pinning him firmly against the cot, her palms scorching on his chest; and both Lyria and Elira were staring at him as though he were the last fragment of fire in a dying world.

Ryon tried to push up, to answer that call outside the walls. Pain lit his ribs aflame, lancing from his side up into his chest, and his vision spun. He collapsed back into Mira's grip with a choked gasp.

"Don't." Mira's voice cracked—not weak, but sharp, like a blade that had been honed too often. Her breath hitched with restrained panic, but her body never faltered. Her strength was not just in muscle but in the sheer, immovable will she pressed into him. "If you rise before you are ready, you will shatter. I won't watch you die because of pride."

Her eyes burned above him, hard as tempered steel, yet Ryon glimpsed something rare in them: not command, not war, but terror. Not terror of the horn, or of the threat pressing at their gates—terror of losing him.

From the shadows came a voice that slithered through the air like silk drawn taut.

"You would chain him to a bed like a prisoner?"

Lyria emerged, silver hair rippling in the lamplight, each strand catching the faint glow until she seemed more apparition than woman. Her presence changed the air in the tent. Mira's fire was heat and blood; Lyria's was ice, sharp and merciless. Her gaze did not waver. "Do you think he was forged to cower behind canvas while others bleed? He is no fragile creature to guard. He is Ryon."

She reached the cot and hovered at his side. Her hand brushed the line of his arm, not quite touching, a ghost of a caress. The absence of contact burned hotter than Mira's firm hold. Her voice softened, its edge replaced by something raw, dangerous. "You were born to rise. To stand with me. The South needs its Warlock, and I—" her breath trembled just once "—I need you."

The air between them charged, snapping like a storm.

Elira broke first. She fell to her knees beside the cot, golden hair spilling forward, her face pale with desperation. Her hands caught his, small fingers tightening around his calloused palms. Her skin was soft, trembling, and it anchored him more firmly than the others' strength.

"Stop!" The cry ripped from her throat, and tears followed it, sliding hot and unrelenting down her cheeks. Her voice shook but did not break. "You speak of duty, of need, of destiny, but what about him?" She looked up, her gaze flaring between Mira and Lyria before returning, desperate, to Ryon. "He is not a sword to wield. He is not a prize to be claimed. He is…" Her voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and pleading. "…He is Ryon. My Ryon. And if he must rise, let it be because he chooses—not because you demand it."

The tent seemed to draw tighter around them. Shadows pressed in. The oil lamp sputtered, almost smothered. The silence that followed her words was so thick that even the night seemed to hold its breath.

Ryon felt Mira's hands falter on his chest, her weight shifting. Lyria's lips pressed together, trembling as though she'd bite through her own restraint. Elira's grip shook in his palms but refused to let go.

And then—the System came alive.

It didn't whisper. It carved.

> [Decision Thread: Active.]

[Degradation risk climbing: 14% → 19% → 22% → 27% → 33%.]

[Outcome branches fraying. Choose. Choose. Choose.]

The words were not light, not voice—they were pressure. They filled his skull, burned into his vision, and he felt his own pulse sync with the rhythm of the messages. The System was impatient. It had no care for love, or war, or the breaking of a man's heart. It demanded choice, demanded sacrifice.

Ryon gasped, sweat slick across his temple. His lips parted.

"I—" The word came broken, like stone cracking. His throat tightened, choking on air. The names crowded there, each one barbed. To speak one would be to betray two. To choose would be to carve his heart into thirds and discard most of it.

Mira bent low, her lips brushing his ear, hot breath spilling across his skin. "Say it. Say my name. End this." Her command was iron, but her voice quavered with something fragile, something she tried to bury beneath the general's mask.

Lyria leaned closer, so close he could feel the ghost of her lips hovering near his. Her eyes burned like molten silver, unyielding. "Look at me. You belong with me. You always have. Say it. End the lie of doubt."

Elira pressed her forehead against his hand, clutching it to her cheek as though it were her only tether to the world. "Don't let them steal you. Don't let them decide. Please… choose only because you want it, not because you're forced. Don't let this war take you from me too."

The System's words grew jagged, frantic:

> [Threads converging. Collapse imminent.]

[Delay incurs fracture.]

[Choose. Choose. CHOOSE.]

His nails dug into his palms, breaking skin, blood trickling between his fingers where Elira still held him. He could feel it—the bond-thread tugging at him, splitting his soul into three raw halves.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear the System from his mind, to cast it into the void. But it lived in him, as much as bone and flesh, and it demanded.

And then—the horn.

It returned, closer, so close it drowned all else. The canvas walls trembled. Dust rained from the rafters. The note was no longer mournful—it was piercing, an unending shriek that spoke of teeth and claws and the end of safety. Beyond the tent came chaos: the ring of steel, the tearing sound of flesh, screams that began sharp but ended wet, cut short by something that had no human mercy.

Mira's head whipped to the flap. Her hand flew to her sword, every muscle coiled. "They're inside the walls."

Lyria drew steel with a hiss like venom, her eyes gleaming. "Then let us meet them."

Elira clung to him, voice broken and frantic. "Don't leave me. Don't rise for them—rise only for yourself!"

The System struck one last time, then faltered:

> [Bond-thread unresolved.]

[Event escalation triggered.]

[Time fracture. Choice deferred.]

The text cracked apart, dissolving into nothing. The pressure lifted—not gone, only postponed. Deferred.

Ryon sucked in a breath like a drowning man breaking the surface. Pain racked him, but he forced his body upright. His vision swam, his legs screamed with weakness, but he stood. Blood pounded in his ears, every heartbeat a war drum.

The three women turned to him. Mira, steel-eyed and burning with command. Lyria, her gaze unyielding, her presence cold fire. Elira, trembling but resolute, tears glimmering like jewels on her cheeks.

He stood between them, torn yet whole.

And then—the horn blared again.

The sound was endless, splitting the midnight apart—until, at last, the tent flap tore open and the night itself broke inside.