THE UNBROKEN

The reeds didn't rustle.

Not until they were ready.

They moved like ghosts through the high grass and low waters, cloaked in darkness, breath shallow in their throats. Lanterns had been snuffed. Mana signatures masked. They were shadows in the swamp.

And the sky, heavy with clouds, offered them cover.

Niegal walked just ahead of the vanguard, his stride measured, his eyes cold. The steel in his hands shimmered only when moonlight touched it, brief flashes like glimpses of what was coming. Elena walked beside him, calm and collected, the Blade of Boinayel resting at her back. She held a mana-slick wardstone in one palm, casting a light that only she could see.

They hadn't separated since the day she woke.

Not in sleep.

Not in war.

Never again.

"You ready, mi Doña?" Niegal murmured, his voice low against the wind.

Elena gave a soft smile, fingers flexing around the hilt of her machete.

"Let's do this, mi Léon."

The camp came into view, nestled between two drowned mangrove groves; Church loyalists, slavers, enforcers. No high priests. Just weapons and cruelty. Dozens of them. Torches lined the perimeter in a lazy triangle, a false sense of safety.

Niegal crouched low and passed the signal through the line.

Aurora nodded from her perch on a low branch. Alejandro unslung his bow.

Phineus drew his blade and touched the hilt to his chest in salute.

Elena whispered a ward of silence and touched her lips, then Niegal's.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

The storm rolled in behind them.

They struck just before the change of shift,

when guards are groggy, and trust the darkness to hold.

Niegal went first.

Steel and muscle. Swift as breath. He cut down two sentries before they could cry out.

Elena was at his side in a blink, the Blade of Boinayel glowing faintly in the mist. The hilt felt alive beneath her fingers, pulsing with quiet rain. Her first swing was wide, defensive, testing the weight.

Then she pivoted and struck a man across the chest with a single arc. The blade passed through plate and flesh as though it were mist.

A crack of thunder answered her.

Elena didn't blink.

She moved with grace; smooth, deliberate, spinning in perfect tandem with the pulse of her mana. Water followed her strikes. Arcs of rainlike energy flashed from her arms as she fought, casting ripples of golden-green light into the dark.

One enemy surged toward her with a blade raised high.

She met him mid-stride, slicing through his attack with a low sweep. He collapsed into the mud, gasping, already gone.

The Blade of Boinayel shimmered again. Rain slicked down its surface, even though not a drop had fallen from the sky.

Yet.

Niegal fought at her side, silent but fierce. His eyes were a storm all their own. He shielded her back, carved through armored zealots without hesitation, the memory of Elena's near-death never far from his reach.

At one point, he caught her eyes across the din; her hair wild, her cheeks flushed, her mouth curled into wild, wicked grin.

Still here, she told him silently.

Always, he answered back.

By the time the guards realized they were under siege, it was far too late.

The people of Marisiana struck like divine vengeance.

Alejandro's arrows pinned commanders to the posts before they could call for aid.

Aurora's smoke charms bloomed across the east wing, causing chaos and coughs.

And through it all, the weather shifted.

No one cast a spell. No one summoned it.

But the sky darkened further. The wind began to churn.

Lightning cracked once in the distance, purple-white and jagged.

Rain began to fall, not heavy, but rhythmic.

Just enough to blur the torches.

Just enough to muffle their steps.

Elena smiled beneath her breath.

Guabancex was watching.

Inside the main cabin, they found the three children.

Huddled in a corner behind a bolted cage door.

Elena reached them first, whispering a soft spell as she laid her hand against the lock. The metal sizzled, then shattered, crumbling like ash. She knelt beside the children, letting them see her face.

"We're here to take you home," she said.

Their little hands reached for hers.

Their eyes, wide and wet, were full of belief.

Niegal stood behind them, blade still drawn, his presence strong and steady.

They had seen too much.

But they would live.

By dawn, it was over.

Smoke rose behind them, faint but final.

They left no bodies. The storm took care of that.

Elena walked with the Blade of Boinayel sheathed once more. Her scars still glowed. Her mana buzzed just under the surface, satisfied. Niegal walked at her side, silent except for the way his hand kept brushing hers.

They had done it.

Together.

And somewhere, far above them, the clouds began to break.

A shaft of early morning light touched the swamp.

For a moment, brief but real, it looked like the world itself had exhaled.