A Wolf's Howl, A Fairy's Wing

These walls drank in the storm of spells launched at them like rain falling in the ocean.

Each impact—fire, ice, stone, and thunder—flared across runes carved into the ancient sandstone, glyphs glowing to life for brief moments before dimming again, their light flickering like something ancient awakened from slumber. The air shimmered under the strain of such power, as arcs of magic snapped like lightning across the sky.

A fresh wave of Runebound hurled themselves at the city, clawed hands scraping and sparking against the walls. Some transformed mid-leap—bones snapping, muscles stretching, fur or scales spilling from their skin as they activate their other forms.

Whatever the Humanitas Sangh branding process did to them exactly, it truly drove Runebound into a frenzy: eyes glazed, mouths frothing, only barely constrained by commands whispered from their Arcanist handlers.

Above, the defenders answered with stubborn grit.

A large group of Arcanists lifted their hands, roaring as a defensive formation spilt forth. Light spilt from their circle, spreading upward into a dome that absorbed a hail of blazing arrows. Runebound among the defenders snarled in unison, some of their bodies shifting into monstrous forms, lunging from the battlements to tear at the attackers clinging to the stone. Blood sprayed both ways, dripping down to sizzle on the wards like rain on hot iron.

Then the ground itself groaned.

From the attacking side, entire cohorts of Arcanists moved as one, chanting, weaving their power into something greater. Their formation became a blazing circle, runes in the sand flaring brighter and brighter until the desert floor itself rose up—a colossal spear of rock, sharpened to a point. With a thunderous crack, it slammed toward the walls.

Still, the wards held. For now. These were ancient runes and glyphs, far more powerful than anyone on Earth could create right now. And yet, not only were they not well-maintained, but this planet was also still in the process of awakening. The aetherium saturation in the air was still much lower than what these wards actually needed to function at full power.

Right now, they operated at a mere fraction of what they were originally capable of.

The impact flared the defences so brightly that it temporarily blinded the first-rankers witnessing it. But when the light faded, fractures ran spiderlike across the carvings, hairline cracks creeping outward. The walls had endured millennia, but they had not been mended in all that time. They could resist—just not forever.

At the same time, the Arcanists who'd just formed a formation to help defend were scattered by the blast. Some still moved, some whose fate was unknown, and some who'd obviously passed.

The city was a beehive of activity. Runners carried orders along the battlements as what few communication sigils they had were in the hands of their commanders, who were spread wide.

"Reform the Sevens! Reinforcement brigade to those cracks! Someone get a few sigil crafters to look at those wards!" On a high tower, a master Arcanist raised his arms, his voice thundering through the stone in his hands as he called for counter-formations. One by one, the defenders began to align, their scattered resistance reshaping into lines of power.

"Sir!" a desperate response came. "We can't do anything with the sigils on those walls! We haven't the faintest idea how they work! Let alone those runes they interact with? No one's even figured out what those are exactly!"

"Then slap something new on them that you can make!" the master snarled back, more stressed than he'd ever been before. "Either figure something out, or go try your luck with those vultures out there! Do you want to disappoint the bosses?!"

An audible gulp travelled through the stone before the shaky, uncertain voice answered. "U— Understood…"

The line broke, and the master Arcanist roared as he smacked his fist against the railing of his open tower. "Listen here, you dogs!" he roared, his voice now carried across all the defensive lines through his aetherium. "This city is ours! Our bosses have carved us a place in this changed world through blood and strife, and I'll be dammed if it falls on my watch! STAND. YOUR. GROUND."

The defenders howled in answer. As attackers tried to scale the walls, the defending Runebound beat them back with a nearly matched level of frenzy. The city's survival would not hinge on the walls alone, but on whether its defenders could wield what little strength they had before the ancient stone failed them.

The eastern curtain wall shook again as the attackers shifted their assault. What had been a reckless tide of Runebound suddenly organised. In the backline, Arcanist commanders raised crimson banners etched with sigils. Instantly, a large section of branded shapeshifters and vampires snapped into unison like hounds to a master's whistle.

A siege-formation. Unsurprisingly, the attackers had drilled for this day.

Dozens of Arcanists in the rearline linked their power, their voices hammering out a single guttural chant as aetherium thrummed. Their magic laced into the Runebound in front, binding them into a living ram. The beasts lowered themselves, sinew and bone thickening, claws hardening into obsidian-like edges. Then they charged—an entire wedge of armoured flesh and enchanted fury slamming into the wall.

The sandstone groaned. Chips and dust rained down. A rune partially shattered outright, one of its characters breaking into shards of dying light.

"Reform on the breach!" cried a defender-captain, her voice carrying across the parapets.

Immediately, a counter-formation locked into place. Four Arcanists and six Runebound linked themselves shoulder to shoulder, their breath falling into rhythm. Power flowed between them, and a surge of force rippled outward. Their combined aura slammed down at the base of the wall, erupting in a wave of concussive light. The Runebound wedge broke apart, hurled backwards into their own lines, limbs snapping from the recoil.

But the attackers had more. Always more. And their formations were ultimately more powerful.

From the desert, fresh formations advanced. Lines of branded Runebound dragged strange constructs of bone and rune-bound metal closer to the front. When Arcanists operated them, they launched blinding balls of pure aetherium at the city.

The defenders answered in kind. Pairs of Arcanists on the walls cast in mirrored gestures, weaving magic circles into the air. Their spells merged into wide nets of fire and ice, scything through climbers before they reached the top. Packs of Runebound defenders leapt down in coordinated strikes, their claws glowing with runes as they tore through leather, metal, and flesh alike.

Every exchange was costly. Every victory bled them both.

Yet the difference in numbers showed. For every attacking wedge broken, another replaced it. For every formation disrupted, two more took shape. The defenders showed grit and coordination, but in the end, they were reactive. The attackers moved like a tide guided by one mind.

And at the heart of the enemy lines, a colossal formation triangle began to blaze, this one, operated by three third-rank Arcanists…