A Fairly Reasonable Crashout (RWBY Adam SI) ch 24

+++

The road out of Cius was wide, winding between wheat fields gone to seed and the dark fringe of the forest that loomed like waiting mouths. Their march was anything but disciplined. No clean lines, no steady rhythm. It was a staggered procession—a loose collection of clumps and pockets, men and women gripping hilts too tightly, their eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

Sienna watched them and thought how different it must have looked in older times—how, in the age of Empire, Mistrali Legionnaires would have trod this very road in perfect step. Shields raised, helms gleaming in the sun, their ranks marching beneath the embroidered standard of the Emperor.

But those banners had long since rotted.

No trumpets. No unity.

Just a rough-tied militia, trudging forward like a collection of bad dreams stuffed into borrowed armor.

The wheat fields fell behind them, swallowed by the forest road.

The shift was immediate. The open sky disappeared, choked out by a canopy so dense it strangled what little daylight remained. Trees rose in ancient, twisted towers, their bark gnarled with age, moss clinging to them like rot. The underbrush rustled even when the wind was still. Shadows moved in ways that shouldn't have been possible.

Sienna's hand tightened around the hilt of her whip.

She'd walked the wilds before. Countless times. But no matter how many patrols she'd taken, no matter how often she'd forayed beyond the safety of the perimeter, she never allowed herself the sin of complacency.

The road itself—the real road, the one that cut through the places maps forgot, where trees grew too close and the air pressed heavy—was alive. And it watched.

Solitas had its dangers, sure. The cold, the wind, the blizzards that could flay flesh from bone. But at least the cold killed Grimm as easily as it killed men. Ice froze. Cold protected.

Mistral was different.

Mistral was old.

There were parts of these woods no one had charted since before the last dynasty. Ruins of long-dead kingdoms slumbered beneath root and stone. Forgotten temples. Collapsed keeps. Entire cities swallowed by green, crumbled into myth. And if you listened long enough, they said, you could still hear chanting beneath the moss—ghost prayers to kings long since turned to bone.

Grimm roamed here.

And worse things sometimes walked with human feet.

Malik moved closer to her flank, his eyes sharp and restless, scanning like a wolf's—never still, never soft. The others were tightening up now, their false bravado from the town square peeling away with every snapped twig and shifting shadow. Their armor creaked under the weight of sweat and fear. Their boots, once loud, turned cautious.

Even Malik stopped talking. That's when Sienna knew it was real.

Adam trailed just behind her, his presence unmistakable even when silent. His sword remained sheathed, his posture taut as a drawn bowstring, ready but not yet loosed. His gaze was relentless, sweeping over everything: the hollow between two stones, the curl of ivy on a tree trunk, the sag of a broken fencepost half-swallowed by vines.

And it hit her—this was Adam's first time stepping beyond the mines or his aunt's farm.

She thought to say something.

But she didn't.

The troop marched in brittle silence, and Sienna didn't want to break it. Some of them were locked into the task, jaws set, eyes forward, treating each step like a commandment to survive. But most just endured—especially the younger ones. Their grips were too tight on their weapons, their shoulders hunched like they expected claws to descend from the trees at any moment.

They were scared.

Shitless.

The signs of their fear—trembling fingers, uneven breaths—didn't go unnoticed. When it leaked out, it was met with sharp reprimands from their makeshift sergeants.

"Do not fear," one snapped under his breath, voice cutting through the dark like a knife. "Or the Grimm will find you."

At least they elected a sergeant with a brain, Sienna thought grimly.

That line should've been carved into their bones before they ever crossed the gate. The adults were holding themselves together well enough, but the young?

No.

No matter how this sallying out ended, she knew one thing:

By the time it was over, they wouldn't be young anymore.

They'd be adults.

One way or another.

In another place, Medea crept low, her body pressed tight to the slope, the damp mulch of the forest floor clinging to her forearms and knees. The scent of old moss, rotting leaves, and wet stone filled her nose. Thrysus was slung across her back, its faint weight a comfort against her spine as she moved.

She hadn't waited after lunch. As soon as Adam left with the others, she'd packed quickly—boots laced tight, Thrysus secured, dust pouches clinking faintly at her hips. It was practical, sure. The Mayor needed her on overwatch, and she was the best dustmancer for leagues.

But that wasn't the whole reason.

There was something else. Something quieter and more pressing, curled under her skin like a secret rash.

She couldn't stay.

Not after what happened.

Not with Adam. Not with that moment replaying endlessly in the back of her mind—his stare, her pose, that terrible, treacherous ache she hadn't felt in years. She needed to get away. Distance herself. Find space to focus on something else, anything else.

So she'd volunteered to scout ahead.

The plan was simple: she'd provide range support. Break their barricades. Pin down their escape routes. Shatter the camp with carefully placed blasts of dust. The militia would storm in and handle the rest—efficient, brutal, clean.

The Mayor, bless his theatrical flair, had even supplied her with a few choice crystals for Thrysus. She already liked the old bastard, and that gesture sealed it. When the next election came around, he'd have her vote.

The camp lay below her now, nestled in the earth like a scab waiting to be picked.

It looked just as she remembered: ragged tents, off-center crates, sagging rope lines. The tarp still drooped; the fire pit remained cold; the green-marked tent leaned to one side like a drunk with a broken leg.

The higher walls a—

Wait.

Her eyes snapped back.

Walls.

Thick timbers rose in sharpened rows, reinforced with crossbeams. Ditches had been dug around the perimeter—deep trenches lined with angled spikes fanned outward. Ramparts, not just crude barriers. Parapets with makeshift walkways behind them. Earth piled high behind wood in a crescent curve, the classic defensive design.

Her eyes swept the trenchline.

Regular intervals. Towers at the corners. Lookout posts with overlapping fields of vision. A palisade boxing the camp into a perfect rectangle, complete with auxiliary fencing and a cleared approach zone that funneled into a single controlled choke point.

Medea's mouth went dry.

Whoever these "bandits" were, they weren't the usual thugs with stolen axes and a knack for ambush. This was military engineering—old-world, textbook, impossibly precise. She could feel it, like a ghost echoing through the design. She could almost hear a drill sergeant barking orders in classical Mistrali. Could see the phantom of a standard snapping proudly in the wind where now a torn tarp flapped weakly against a pole.

Her stomach twisted. How the hell did they do this so fast? And why?

Then she remembered.

The way the scout had died.

It surely kicked them into high gear.

Gods above.

Who the hell were these bandits?

And where the hell was the militia?

​+++

Sienna pushed a low-hanging branch aside with the back of her hand, its bark slick with moss and rainwater. The underbrush clawed at her legs, thorns and burrs catching on the edges of her coat, but she didn't flinch. She didn't curse. Her jaw was locked tight, her eyes scanning left, then right. The forest had changed—subtly, but enough for someone like her to feel it.

The march had slowed.

The militia had spread out as planned, breaking into smaller skirmish groups to move quieter, leave less of a trail. Flankers pushed ahead while the younger recruits stayed at the center. Somewhere near the middle, the Mayor trudged along—bold and loud as ever, humming some old tune, his sword swinging against his side like a toy. Adam was near her, silent and sharp-eyed, but she hadn't spoken to him in twenty minutes. Malik was off to her right, brushing through the vines as if he belonged there.

They were in the belly of the forest now. The trees closed around them like ribs. The dirt sucked at boots. Every breath tasted of bark and loam.

And then—

The trees opened.

Sienna stopped dead.

The others behind her muttered, one of them stumbling forward, until they too saw it and fell silent.

There it was.

Not a camp.

A fort.

This wasn't the rough, lazy sprawl of bandits. It wasn't a disorganized mess of tents and barrels, begging to be blitzed.

Murmurs rippled.

Low at first. Nervous, hushed—like the woods had grown ears and every word might be its trigger. The recruits clustered in staggered lines now, eyes darting to the palisades rising ahead like the ribs of some buried god. No sound from within. No movement on the ramparts. No bandits waving blades or shouting obscenities.

"What the hell is this?"

"Where's the smoke?"

"Why's it so... clean?"

The Mayor bit his lip. His voice was steely. "Stay down. Hold the line. No one moves until I say."

But someone did.

A boy—seventeen, maybe. Too young to be out here. Too scared to stay still. His rust-flecked cuirass hung two sizes too big, and he held his spear like a broom he'd never liked using. He broke formation, creeping toward the trench like he was sneaking into an orchard.

"Hey!" Malik hissed, reaching out too late. "Idiot—"

The boy stepped into the clearing.

And everything erupted.

The first burst cut him down mid-step. Dust rounds stitched through his chest in a bright, horizontal streak, lifting him off his feet and hurling him backward into the mud like a ragdoll.

Shock rippled through the group.

Then the forest screamed.

The fort's facade lit up with fire. Muzzles flared from behind camouflage netting, hidden slits in the palisade, dug-in nests no scout had seen. The trees behind the militia exploded into splinters.

"DOWN! DOWN NOW!"

Screams rose—raw, panicked, untrained.

Young fighters scrambled for cover. Some dove into the dirt. Others turned to run only to be gunned down.

The Mayor was screaming orders through the chaos—his saber drawn, barking at people to rally, hold the line, get low. But his words cut off abruptly as a dust round met his face.

Then, there was no more Mayor.

Sienna ducked behind a log, peeking over just in time to see the "bandits" moving behind the parapets. Their movements were practiced. Disciplined. Firing in controlled bursts. Covering reloads. Coordinating.

Not bandits.

Soldiers.

Through it all. She wondered.

Where the hell was Medea!?

A high, shrieking whistle tore across the clearing—a streak of incandescent red-and-gold arcing down from the ridge above, moving too fast to be natural. It struck the base of the nearest tower like the hammer of a vengeful god.

WHHBOOOM!

The explosion tore through wood, dust, and flesh in a brilliant blossom of heat and splinters. One of the gunners was thrown into the air, his scream cut short mid-flight. The parapet collapsed in on itself with a groaning crack, smoke rolling outward like a living thing, swallowing the forward wall in a choking haze.

"Medea," Sienna breathed, eyes wide with raw, grateful rage.

Another ball of searing fire streaked down.

THOOM!

This one hit deeper, igniting crates, catching oil, spreading chaos. For all their organization, the soldiers hadn't expected this.

Sienna stood, Cerberus Whip drawn, her voice slicing through the clearing like a whipcrack.

"NOW! While they're pinned!"

But no one moved.

The militia huddled behind stumps and trees, their bodies small. Weapons held but unused. Eyes too wide. Ears still ringing.

Medea had given them an opening, but it was going to close. Fast.

Sienna turned, ready to drag someone forward herself, when a shape moved past her.

Adam.

He moved like he was born for this. No hesitation. No glance back. Just a sharp burst forward, boots pounding the earth, sword gleaming high in his grip as he sprinted into the open.

Straight into fire.

Sienna's breath caught.

His coat whipped behind him like a banner, his blade catching the glow of Medea's fireballs. Another BOOM shattered the eastern tower. Shrapnel rained down in jagged arcs, embers curling through the smoke like red snow. Adam didn't flinch. He surged past the treeline, eyes locked on the fort ahead, face bared to the heat and gunfire, yelling something that turned raw sound into courage.

"CIUS—TO ME!"

The roar hit like thunder.

And the militia moved.

A cry rose—not rehearsed, not planned, but born of sheer, desperate fury. A boy with a short spear broke into a run after Adam. Then two more. A woman screamed and followed, firing a salvaged dust-shot pistol. A man in old Mistrali armor let out the Empire's ancient battle cry:

"EJA EJA ALALA! VICTORY TO MISTRAL!"

The militia surged.

Feet tore through the brush, weapons lifted. Some howled, others wept. But they ran—around trees, over ditches, across the killing field Medea had turned to ash and ruin. Dust rounds snapped through the haze, but they barely registered now—lost beneath the thunder of charging feet and defiant screams.

Adam reached the trench first. He vaulted it, sword flashing, and struck the first enemy who broke cover.

Sienna was right behind him.

The killing field smoked. The trench bubbled with burning pitch and bodies. Sienna vaulted it, her whip snapping loose in her hand, coils spinning out like a struck viper.

Steel met steel. Blood met earth.

The tide had turned.

Sienna moved like a predator, Cerberus Whip a living, snarling extension of her will. It cracked and coiled, biting into soldiers with brutal precision. One caught it across the throat and he crumpled. Another lunged at her with a bayonet, but she twisted low, the whip snapping upward to coil around his wrist. A sharp pull. A scream. His weapon clattered to the ground as she drove her boot into his chest, sending him sprawling into the mud.

To her right, Adam was a blur of motion. His blade hummed as it danced through the chaos, finding gaps in armor, slashing arteries, severing tendons. He fought like a man possessed, his movements fluid and devastating. Blood streaked his face, and his eyes burned with a wild intensity that seemed to dare the world to throw more at him.

The militia followed, a wave of ragtag fury crashing against the fort's defenses. They weren't trained soldiers, but desperation and rage had hardened them into something far more dangerous. They clawed and fought their way forward, trampling through the bodies of the fallen, their screams mingling with the roar of Medea's bombardment.

Another fireball streaked down, this one slamming into the rear of the fort with a deafening BOOM! The ground shook, and the air was filled with the acrid stench of burning wood and oil. The explosion sent debris flying, tearing through the remaining defenders like shrapnel.

Sienna barely had time to register the chaos when a shout drew her attention.

"LEFT FLANK! THEY'RE REGROUPING!"

She turned, spotting a cluster of enemy soldiers emerging from the smoke, rifles raised. They were moving in formation, disciplined even in retreat.

"Not on my watch," Sienna growled.

She surged forward, whip snapping out to catch the lead soldier's rifle, yanking it hard. The weapon discharged harmlessly into the dirt as the soldier stumbled forward, straight into her knee. She didn't stop, didn't slow. Her whip lashed out again, striking another soldier across the face, his scream of pain drowned by the roar of the battle.

Behind her, Malik was scaling the palisade with the reckless determination of a man who didn't care if he lived or died. He hauled himself over the edge, his jezail in his hand.

"Clear the wall!" Malik bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Take the high ground!"

More militia fighters followed, scrambling up the palisade after him. The defenders were being overwhelmed, their lines breaking under the relentless assault.

But the fight wasn't over.

Sienna's instincts screamed a warning. She spun just in time to see a soldier charging at her with a bayonet. She sidestepped, the blade missing her by inches, and lashed out with her whip. It coiled around his neck, and with a sharp pull, she brought him to his knees. One swift kick to the head, and he was down.

"Adam!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the din.

He was already moving, cutting his way through the remaining defenders like a storm. His coat was torn, his blade slick with blood, but he didn't falter. He reached the breach and turned, his voice booming.

"Push forward! To the courtyard!"

The militia surged after him, their momentum unstoppable. The remaining defenders were falling back, retreating toward the inner yard where their final line of defense waited.

Sienna followed, her heart pounding. The air was thick with smoke and the coppery tang of blood.

Adam reached the courtyard first, his blade flashing as he cut down the last two defenders. Sienna was right behind him, her whip snapping out to disarm another soldier who tried to raise his rifle.

Then, the world seemed to hold its breath.

The militia poured into the courtyard, their cheers of victory rising. The defenders were either dead or in retreat. The fort was theirs.

Sienna turned in a slow circle, taking in the scene. Bodies littered the ground, smoke curled from the remains of the towers, and the air was filled with the low, stunned murmurs of fighters who couldn't quite believe they'd won.

Adam stood in the center of it all, his sword lowered, his chest heaving. His eyes met Sienna's, and for a moment, there was something like relief in his gaze.

But then—

A shadow moved.

Sienna's body reacted before her mind could catch up. She turned just as the hulking figure emerged from the smoke.

It was like something out of a nightmare.

The woman was tall and broad-shouldered, her presence commanding. Her coat, red and black, hung open to reveal a body wrapped in gold-inlaid armor. Her hair, a wild cascade of storm-black curls, framed a scarred face dominated by a single ember-like eye. The other was hidden behind a jagged eyepatch.

In her hand, she carried a massive cleaver-like blade, its edge glinting with Dust-infused energy.

The air around her crackled with power, the faint hum of lightning Dust mingling with the sound of her heavy footsteps.

"YOU DARE?" she roared, her voice a thunderclap that silenced the courtyard.

Adam turned, his sword coming up just in time.

The woman moved faster than anyone her size had any right to. Her blade came down in a brutal arc, and Adam barely managed to deflect it. The impact sent him stumbling back, his boots skidding on blood-slick stone.

Sienna's whip snapped out, aiming for the woman's leg, but she moved with uncanny agility, twisting out of the way and slamming the flat of her blade into Adam's ribs.

CRACK!

The blow sent him flying. He hit the ground hard, bouncing once before skidding to a stop. His aura shimmered.

"Crown Princess!" one of the retreating soldiers shouted. "We need to fall back!"

Crown Princess?

Realization set in.

Medea has spoken about the old blood attempting to reclaim their old posts. Was this one of them? A pretender? Or was it the real deal?

The woman—no, the Crown Princess—ignored them. Her one good eye burned with fury as she advanced on Adam, her blade raised.

Sienna moved, her whip snapping out to coil around the Crown Princess's leg. With a grunt, Sienna yanked, pulling the woman off balance.

The Crown Princess stumbled, her blade swinging wide, but she didn't fall.

Her ember eye locked on Sienna.

"You," she growled, her voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Sienna squared her stance, her grip tightening on the whip.

"Yeah," she said, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest. "Me."

And then the Crown Princess charged.

The Crown Princess came at Sienna like a storm, her massive blade humming with energy as it carved through the air. Every swing was a hurricane, a brutal, sweeping arc of power that could cleave a lesser fighter in two.

Sienna didn't stand her ground—she couldn't. She ducked and rolled, her whip snapping to keep the princess at bay. Cerberus Whip cracked like thunder, the three-pronged tips lashing out with precision, aiming for weak points: the joints in her armor, her unprotected legs, the exposed underside of her arms.

But the Crown Princess was no amateur. She moved with the confidence of someone who had seen a hundred battles and won them all. Her blade swung so fast it blurred, cutting through the space where Sienna had been a heartbeat before.

CLANG!

The whip wrapped around the hilt of the cleaver, and Sienna yanked hard, trying to disarm her.

The Crown Princess didn't budge.

Instead, she let out a low, feral laugh, her one good eye gleaming with sadistic amusement.

"Is that all you've got, tigress?" she sneered, and with a violent twist of her wrist, she ripped the whip free, sending it snapping back toward Sienna like a recoiling snake.

Sienna barely ducked in time. The crack of the whip nearly deafened her as it snapped past her head. She rolled backward, coming to her feet in a low crouch, her whip coiled and ready.

The Crown Princess didn't wait. She charged again, closing the distance with terrifying speed. Her cleaver came down in a vertical slash, aiming to split Sienna in half.

Sienna sidestepped, the blade slamming into the ground with a deafening BOOM, splinters of wood and stone spraying everywhere. She used the opening to dart in close, her whip snapping out to wrap around the princess's wrist.

"Got you—"

The Crown Princess wrenched her arm upward, pulling Sienna off balance.

With a roar, she swung her free hand, catching Sienna across the jaw with the back of her gauntlet. The impact sent her spinning, her vision exploding with stars. She hit the ground hard, her whip slipping from her grasp.

The Crown Princess loomed over her, her blade raised high.

"You're fast," she said, voice cold and mocking. "But speed won't save you."

The blade came down.

Sienna rolled, the edge missing her by inches, carving a deep gouge into the earth. She kicked out, her boot connecting with the princess's knee. The Crown Princess grunted, stumbling back, but only for a moment.

Sienna scrambled to her feet, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. Her whip was gone, but she didn't need it. Her hands curled into fists, her stance low and ready.

The Crown Princess smirked.

"Brave," she said, almost admiringly. "Stupid, but brave."

Sienna didn't reply. She darted forward, feinting left, then right, her movements quick and unpredictable. The princess swung her blade, but Sienna slipped under it, coming up inside her guard. She drove her elbow into the woman's ribs, then followed with a sharp knee to the stomach.

The princess's aura staggered, but it was like hitting a mountain.

Before Sienna could follow up, the Crown Princess lashed out with her free hand, grabbing Sienna by the collar and lifting her off the ground.

"You fight well," the princess said, her voice a low growl. "But you're way out of your league."

She hurled Sienna backward.

Sienna hit the ground hard, air exploding from her lungs. She rolled to her side, gasping, and saw the Crown Princess striding forward, her blade glinting in the firelight. She lifted it to her Sienna down.

But before she could.

Adam intervened.

He rushed up, his blade glowing red, humming with the raw power of his semblance. The air around him shimmered, heat radiating from his body as his aura surged to its peak. His movements became sharper, faster, like a predator unleashed.

"Get away from her!" he roared, his voice reverberating like a battle horn.

The Crown Princess barely had time to turn before Adam was on her. His first strike came down with the force of a falling star, slamming into her cleaver and driving her back a full step. The ground beneath her boots cracked from the impact.

She snarled, her ember eye flaring with fury.

Adam didn't respond. He pressed the attack, his blade moving in a relentless blur of slashes and thrusts. Each strike carried the weight of his semblance, the burning energy cracking her aura with every hit. The Crown Princess blocked and parried, her movements slower now, her strength waning under the onslaught.

"You think you can break me?!" she bellowed, swinging her massive cleaver in a desperate, wide arc.

Adam ducked low, the blade whistling over his head. He surged forward, his sword slashing upward in a vicious diagonal. The strike caught her across the chest, sending a visible ripple through her aura as it flickered, a spiderweb of cracks forming across the glowing barrier.

The Crown Princess stumbled, her footing faltering for the first time.

Adam didn't let up. His semblance flared brighter, his blade glowing like molten steel. He roared as he brought it down in a two-handed strike, the force of the blow shattering what remained of her aura in an explosive burst of energy.

The Crown Princess let out a guttural cry as the protective barrier around her shattered completely, leaving her exposed.

Sienna saw her moment.

She didn't hesitate.

With a burst of speed, she sprinted forward, her whip forgotten as she threw herself at the Crown Princess. The larger woman was still recovering from Adam's attack, her balance unsteady. Sienna crashed into her with all her weight, driving her shoulder into the princess's chest and knocking her backward.

The two of them hit the ground hard, the Crown Princess pinned beneath Sienna.

The Crown Princess snarled, her hands coming up to shove Sienna off, but Sienna was already moving. She grabbed the woman's collar, yanked her up slightly, and slammed her back down into the dirt with a bone-rattling THUD.

The princess's head jerked back, her ember eye blazing with fury, but Sienna didn't stop.

Before the princess could recover, Sienna reared back and drove her forehead into the Crown Princess's face with a brutal CRACK.

The Crown Princess let out a strangled grunt, her head snapping back from the impact. Blood spattered from her nose, and her arms flailed, trying to grab Sienna.

Sienna headbutted her again.

And again.

Each impact sent a dull, jarring pain through Sienna's skull, but she didn't care. She was beyond caring.

The Crown Princess's struggles grew weaker with each blow. Her ember eye dimmed, her movements slowing as the fight drained out of her.

Sienna pulled back one final time, her forehead streaked with blood, her breath ragged.

"Stay. Down," she snarled, slamming the princess's head into the dirt one last time.

The Crown Princess's body went limp, her eye fluttering closed as unconsciousness finally claimed her.

Sienna sat there for a moment, her chest heaving, her hands trembling.

Behind her, Adam approached, his blade still glowing faintly. He looked down at the unconscious form of the Crown Princess, then at Sienna.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Sienna wiped the blood from her forehead and stood, swaying slightly.

"Not even a little," she huffed. "But she's down."

Adam nodded, his gaze shifting to the battlefield around them. The militia was regrouping, their victory now undeniable. The fort was theirs.

But Sienna's eyes lingered on the Crown Princess's motionless form.

This fucking…" she muttered, wiping her mouth. "Crown Princess? Can you believe that?"

"I don't," Adam replied. "I thought the Imperial Family was extinct."

"Clearly not," Sienna said bitterly.

Adam moved, silent and purposeful, across the blood-soaked ground. His boots left impressions in ash, mud, and flesh, but his eyes weren't on the dead.

"Where's their damn command tent…" he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Sienna followed, her steps heavy but steady. Her limbs ached, her aura sputtering like a dying lantern. Command Tent...? Then she realized.

You don't field trained soldiers and a Crown Princess without orders. Without a plan.

Fires crackled around them, licking at broken ramparts and collapsing towers. The fort groaned in its death throes. Militia soldiers picked through the wounded and counted their dead. But Adam pressed deeper, toward the rear of the compound.

He stopped abruptly.

Sienna nearly walked into him.

"What—?" she started.

Then she saw it.

A larger structure. Fabric walls half-scorched but still standing. Torn banners lay scattered, but one pole remained showing off the Mistrali coat of arms but older, more ancient.

"Command tent," Adam said, low.

He stepped forward. The flap hung ajar, swaying gently in the wind, like it was breathing. He reached for it, then paused.

Sienna caught the hesitation. "Adam?"

He didn't answer.

He pulled the flap aside and stepped in.

Silence.

No gasp. No curse. 

Sienna frowned, then pushed through the flap herself.

"What is it? What's—" She stopped.

And stared.

The dimly lit interior held little. A central table. Crates cracked open to reveal maps, sealed envelopes. Then, the back wall. Pinned there and enormous was a map of Anima. Not hand-drawn. Not stitched. A projection, preserved and updated through Dust-threaded ink, glowing faintly. Territories were marked in distinct colors.

Sienna stepped closer, her throat dry.

Mistral—at the center. Blue. Deep royal, tendrils spreading from the capital, marked with sigils of control.

Atlas—the North. White, cold and orderly, margins etched with blocky glyphs like a machine's breath.

South west—where they were remained without a colour save for a crown attached to the region.

And then—

The East.

Her eyes narrowed.

There was no color there.

Just a symbol that stretched all over the east. 

Small. Precise. A clock, its hands frozen at midnight, nestled within raven's wings.

No borders. No battle lines. No terrain markers.

Just that symbol.

Sienna exhaled slowly, her voice hollow.

"…What is that?"

He did not answer.

+++

Medea huffed.

She stood on a rocky outlook, the fort sprawling below her in ruins. Smoke rose in thin, curling tendrils from the shattered ramparts, and the glow of dying fires illuminated the corpses scattered across the battlefield.

She leaned against her staff, the once-brilliant Dust crystals now dull and spent. Without them, she was practically powerless. Such was the curse of a Dust mage.

"Useless," she muttered under her breath, her fingers tightening on the staff. Her shoulders sagged as she let out a long exhale. At least the fort was theirs. That was something.

The wind shifted, carrying the acrid scent of smoke and blood. Medea turned her gaze to the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of something—anything—that wasn't destruction.

A sharp caw broke her thoughts.

She flinched, her head snapping to the side. A raven sat perched on a gnarled branch just a few paces away, its feathers sleek and black as pitch. The bird tilted its head, staring at her with eyes as dark and reflective as polished obsidian.

Medea frowned. "What do you want?"

The raven didn't move. Its gaze was unnervingly focused, almost intelligent. She shifted uneasily beneath its stare.

"Shoo," she muttered, waving a hand in its direction. "Go find something else to creep out."

The raven let out another harsh cry, ruffling its feathers but remaining firmly on its perch. Medea's unease deepened. There was something... wrong about this bird. The way it watched her felt deliberate, calculated.

"Creepy little thing," she grumbled. She turned her back on it, gripping her staff tighter. "I'm done with this."

She started down the slope, toward the others. Her footsteps were quick, her heart beating a little faster than she cared to admit. She didn't look back.

Behind her, the raven tilted its head again, its black eyes glinting. Then, with a shimmer of crimson light, its body began to twist and shift. Feathers melted into flesh, talons stretched into hands, and the bird grew taller, its form reshaping itself into that of a woman.

Raven Branwen stood where the bird had been, her crimson eyes cold and calculating as she watched Medea vanish into the haze below. She turned her attention from Medea and into the fort.

The Crown Princess had been so promising, so strong. So Raven supported her. If she won, her territory would increase. But that did not happen. She lost. Raven's lips curled into a faint, disdainful smirk. No wonder their dynasty ended. It did not have the lustre of its founders. It had grown weak, complacent. "A waste," she muttered, her voice low and sharp.

She shook her head, her black hair falling around her face like a curtain. One hand reached for the hilt of her sword, the motion slow and deliberate. She unsheathed it, the blade gleaming faintly in the flickering light of the fires below.

With a smooth, practiced motion, Raven slashed the air in front of her. A portal opened—a swirling, red-tinged void that pulsed like a living wound. She gave the fort one final glance, her expression hard and unreadable.

Still. There was something interesting there, she supposed.

That bull faunus. That tigress.

Very interesting.

She stepped into the portal without hesitation. It closed behind her with a faint snap, leaving the battlefield silent except for the wind and the crackle of distant flames.

+++

A/N: More to come frfr.