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raulonastool.eth 🎩 🏰
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FARCASTLES: CHAPTER THIRTEEN – THE SHATTERING GROUND The first clash rang out like a bell cracking. Sarra met the lead deserter mid-sprint—her blade a streak of iron wind. Steel shrieked against steel, then tore through it. The man fell without a sound, and his shadow didn’t follow him. Torv flowed to her flank, striking low, fast. The second attacker crumpled from a blow he never saw. Ern stood frozen a moment longer. Then the ground groaned again. The rift behind them widened. From the pit, something surged—not a creature, not yet, but a presence, like breath behind stone. Heat that didn’t warm. Light that didn’t shine. Myrr raised both hands. Glyphs flared in their palms. The stones around the sealed site buckled upward into jagged walls, catching arrows in flight. Myrr shouted a word that sounded like wind breaking over bone.
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raulonastool.eth 🎩 🏰
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“Ern!” Gellon’s voice tore him from his haze. “Move or bleed!” Ern gritted his teeth, staff in hand. A deserter lunged at him—he ducked low, swung up. The pole cracked against the man’s jaw. He collapsed in a heap. It was the first time Ern had dropped someone with a weapon. He didn’t have time to think about how he felt. The deserters came in waves. Each one more desperate. More fanatical. Some whispered as they fought—chanting words that didn’t belong to any Castle. Myrr turned sharply. “They’ve been touched by it. Hollow-marked.” Torv drove a dagger through one’s knee and kicked him into the rift. “Then don’t let them get too close.” Sarra fought like a storm contained in armor. Her blade never stopped moving. Her face never cracked.
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raulonastool.eth 🎩 🏰
@raulonastool
Gellon was smiling again—wounded in the arm, bleeding from the scalp—but his strikes were clean. Precise. “Three left!” he shouted. “Maybe four if one of them’s faking it!” Ern knocked another back and spun—just in time to see one of the deserters break past Torv and charge straight for Myrr. “Myrr!” Ern bellowed. He ran. Too slow. But Myrr didn’t flinch. They turned, extended one hand, and whispered something low. The ground beneath the attacker shattered into sand. He screamed as he sank, and Myrr closed their fist. The earth hardened over him like a tomb. Ern stared, wide-eyed. Myrr met his gaze. “You see now?” they said. “Some things can’t be allowed to touch.” The last of the deserters turned to flee. He didn’t make it far. Sarra threw a blade. It found the back of his leg. Silence fell. For a breath. Then the rift shuddered. The heat rose again. The wind reversed. The stones around them began to hum—not with magic, but with memory.
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