THE UNBROKEN

Phineus paced the overgrown steps of the ruin, boots crunching against cracked stone and creeping moss. The old temple, abandoned, forgotten, loomed behind him like a sentinel of memory. Its columns leaned, worn down by wind and time, but something about this place still hummed with unseen power.

He couldn't shake it, what Siobhan had screamed as they dragged her out of parliament days before.

"You're too late. Elena will never be safe."

It haunted him. And his gut, the same instinct that kept him alive this long, twisted like a blade. Something was wrong.

A shriek sliced the wind.

Clara.

His silver hawk dove from the sky in a flash of glinting feathers, wings stretched wide. Phineus held out his arm without hesitation, and she landed in a blur of motion, talons sharp but careful.

She was tense.

More than that; alarmed.

Her head turned, one eye narrowing before she pressed her silver-feathered crown to his forehead.

Phineus went still.

He inhaled slowly, his lashes fluttering shut as Clara's magic surged. A quiet pact, old as blood, sealed by whistle and wing.

And in that stillness—he saw.

A flicker. Then a flood.

A village, warm and thriving. He recognized the cathedral from Elena's last letter.

Riders in black and crimson, bearing the sigil of Saintess Yidali, snaking down the mountain road.

Elena and Niegal, grabbing their daughter, cloaking themselves in spells as they disappeared into the trees.

Then- the twist.

He saw it: an ambush.

Steel glinting from behind trees. Mana nets, arcane shackles, blades soaked in salt and holy oils.

No- NO-

He reached out in the vision, but it shattered.

Phineus gasped and stumbled back, clutching Clara to his chest.

His breath came ragged. His blood burned.

"They're walking into a trap," he growled. "They're walking right into it."

His eyes flared. Not with magic, but with purpose. Fury. And fear.

He turned on his heel and stormed down the steps.

"SADDLE UP!" he roared to the camp nearby. "Weapons loaded, mana shields tight, provisions on the light side. We ride now. If we move hard and fast, we might make it by dawn."

Clara took flight again, circling above in a high, protective arc.

Phineus climbed into his saddle, steel armor gleaming with the sigil of Matteo, and whispered a breathless prayer to Guabancex, Goddess of Storms and Justice.

"Watch over her. Watch over them. Don't let her fall."

As he raised his sword skyward, a roll of thunder cracked across the horizon. A warning. A promise.

The small retinue of loyal warriors, witches, and riders moved like shadows in the moonlight, thundering toward the mountains.

And in his chest, Phineus swore:

"I lost one Matteo to this war already. I will not lose another."