Chapter 51

Chapter 51
Authoress's POV Cont'd
The fortress was eerily silent as the warriors returned, the thudding of hooves replaced with the soft cries of the wounded. Blood smeared the armor of the surviving fighters, some limping, others barely conscious. No victory chants echoed through the air. There was nothing victorious about the retreat.
Zackfronth dismounted, still cradling Twila in his arms. Her breathing was shallow, her skin pale. A long gash ran down her arm, pulsing with a dark hue that didn’t look entirely natural.
“Get the healer!” he shouted as he rushed inside.
The elder was already waiting, his face grim. “Lay her here,” he instructed, pointing to a woven mat on the floor of his house. Zackfronth complied, kneeling beside her.
“She’s strong,” he murmured, brushing a few strands of hair from her forehead. “She’ll be fine.”
The elder placed a hand over the wound, frowning. “This is shadow rot,” he said. “A wound caused by the slayers doesn’t heal like normal. If left untreated, it spreads through the body, eating at the soul.”
Zackfronth’s jaw clenched. “Then treat it. Now.”
The elder didn’t respond. Instead, he summoned his herbs and vials, beginning the complex process of drawing the darkness out of Twila’s blood. Zackfronth remained by her side the entire time, holding her good hand tightly, refusing to let go.

Meanwhile, in the war room, Orion paced back and forth, fury and guilt etched across his face. Azrael leaned against the wall, nursing a broken rib.
“We weren’t ready,” Orion muttered. “We thought we could surprise them, but they knew we were coming. They didn’t even fight. Just kept marking.”
Azrael slammed his fist into the stone wall. “We were bait. They let us come to them. They wanted to see how strong we were—and we showed them everything we had. They barely lifted a finger.”
A tense silence fell between them.
“We lost too many,” Orion added quietly.
“Too many,” Azrael echoed, voice cold.
Outside, the people were no longer wailing. They had grown quiet, their despair too deep to be expressed in words. Mothers held their marked children tighter. Fathers watched the sky with haunted eyes, waiting for a salvation that seemed more distant than ever.
And still, the markings glowed.

By nightfall, the elder emerged from his house, face weary but relieved. He looked at Zackfronth, who hadn’t moved from Twila’s side.
“She’ll live,” he said. “I’ve drawn out most of the rot, but she needs rest. Her power is still fragile.”
Zackfronth exhaled in relief and nodded. “Thank you.”
“She fought hard,” the elder said quietly. “But we can’t afford more losses like this. We must think beyond retaliation. If we want to win this war, we have to understand what we’re fighting.”
Zackfronth looked at him, eyes sharp. “Then tell us. What are we fighting?”
The elder glanced toward the distant hills, where the slayers still stood. “We’re fighting something ancient. Something that doesn’t just kill—it consumes. The Shadow Slayers were created to serve a purpose, and that purpose isn’t conquest. It’s extinction.”
Just then, Tara ran to them. She stretched forth her arm to her grandfather.
“Grandpa, look. A moon is glowing on my arm.” She said excitedly.
The elder and Zackfronth stared at each other, dread filling their eyes.
The elder pulled her to himself and wept.
“No.. not her, not my baby.” He cried with a loud voice. “Take me instead. Please.”
Zackfronth couldn't stop the tears that escaped his eyes. Tara had been marked.

Orion's POV
I decided to check on Twila in the elder's house. She didn't seem too good. She had a persistent fever and I was starting to freak out.
I pushed back a loose strand of hair that stuck to her sweaty face. She stirred in her sleep and then opened her eyes.
“Hey.” She cooed.
“Hey back.” I smiled and sniffed in a tear that threatened to escape. “You look awful.” I said and she smiled weakly.
“I know.” She paused. “What are we going to do?” She asked and I went quiet. I had no answers for her question. “We can't just let these people die. I have to do something.”
“You're too weak to do anything, Twila.” I stopped her attempt to stand up. “Just rest. I'll talk with the others, we'll figure something out.”
“Orion, this is not some random fight you can just fix. It goes beyond natural.” She said. “Where's Zackfronth?”
“Somewhere venting his anger..”
“What happened?”
“Tara was marked.”
“What?!!” She exclaimed. “No, not Tara..” She cried and I tried to calm her. “I have to do something, Orion. I can't just stay here and watch it all perish!”
“What else can you do..Have you forgotten how the first attempt went? Look at yourself, you can barely sit up by yourself!!” I yelled.
I was frustrated and angry. I couldn't let her get hurt again, not anymore.
“So, we just watch them all die. We do nothing?!” She returned with the same vibe.
I took a deep breath. “Look Twila, all I'm saying is I don't want you getting hurt more than you already are.”
“Can you please get Zackfronth?” She said instead. I sighed and stood up. Twila was too stubborn.
As I made for the door, a loud sound of a horn blasted through the air. A gust of cold wind rushed into the house.
“What was that?” She asked.
“I'll check it out.” I said and walked outside.
On the hill, the shadow warriors raised a huge banner to the sky, with a blood moon sigil.
“What the hell is this?” I said. Twila came from behind me.
“The Reaping.”
“How is that even possible?” I turned to her. “The Reaping is supposed to begin tomorrow, not tonight.”
“I think we made a mistake attacking first.”
Immediately, the ground began to shake as the Shadow slayers and their army rode down the
hill and fully into the kingdom.
Then, the Reaping began.

Authoress's POV
The sky split open with a deep, unnatural rumble as the shadow army charged into the kingdom. The moon above bled crimson, casting an eerie glow over the land. The Reaping had begun—early, merciless, and with a fury that sent panic rippling across the fortress walls.
The first wave of destruction was a blur. Shadows moved faster than the eye could follow. Doors burst off their hinges. Stone walls cracked and crumbled like parchment. Screams rose into the air like a chorus of death.
Azrael met the charge head-on. His claws unsheathed, eyes glowing, he let out a primal roar and launched himself into the fray. He tackled one of the slayers to the ground, ripping through shadowed flesh with supernatural rage. But for every slayer that fell, two more emerged from the mist. Their movements were fluid and inhuman, like death itself had taken form.
Orion fought beside him, blade flashing, slicing through the fog. His strikes were precise, born of desperation and fury. But even he could see it—this wasn’t a fight they could win. The shadow army was too large. Too fast. Too unkillable.
The warriors of the kingdom surged forward with them, shoulder to shoulder in defiance. But courage alone could not withstand what came next.

A building to the east exploded into flame, collapsing into rubble as a slayer tore through it with a single strike. The shockwave sent villagers flying. A mother screamed, shielding her marked child, but within seconds the child’s body went still—lifeless. The mark on her arm dissolved into ash.
The marked were dying.
One by one.
Everywhere.
Their bodies dropped like leaves in winter—silent, tragic, irreversible.
Zackfronth emerged from the elder’s hut, his eyes blazing with hatred. He transformed mid-run, his massive wolf form dwarfing the shadows around him. He tore into the army with feral force, his growls shaking the earth. But even he, in all his power, couldn’t be everywhere at once.
Tara’s cries echoed through the battlefield as the elder clutched her body to his chest. Her skin was pale. The moon-shaped mark on her arm shimmered once... then vanished. She was gone.
“No—no!” the elder howled, his voice raw with grief. “Take me, not her!” But there were no answers in the dark.
The fortress began to collapse under the strain. Arrows flew from the towers, spells lit the sky, but the shadows kept coming. They moved like a tide, flooding every corner, leaving nothing untouched.
A warrior’s head was taken clean off by a slayer’s blade. Another was impaled mid-shift. A young boy ran through the chaos, calling for his parents—only for a shadowy whip to wrap around his ankle and drag him into the mist.
Blood soaked the streets. Fire licked the rooftops. Smoke choked the air.
And yet, no one retreated.
They couldn’t retreat.
There was nowhere left to run.

Azrael stumbled, bleeding from a slash across his side. Orion caught him before he could fall completely. “We have to hold them off,” he growled. “We buy time—for the unmarked, for the elders—anything.”
“But we’ll die,” Azrael said through gritted teeth.
“I know.”
And still they fought.

Twila had left the elder’s house, her body weak, but her resolve stronger than steel. Her presence sparked something in the warriors who were falling back—hope. She raised a palm and a surge of silver light exploded from her fingertips, cutting through the air. A row of slayers were pushed back, momentarily stunned by her blast. It wasn’t enough to kill—but it gave the fighters a few seconds to breathe.
“Fall back to the temple!” Orion shouted. “Regroup!”
But the temple gates were already under siege. A massive slayer, twice the size of the others, had broken through the outer wall. He wielded a blade made of bone and ash, and each swing of it decimated anything in its path.
Zackfronth lunged at him, his fangs bared. The two collided with a ground-shaking crash, claws scraping against unholy metal. Sparks flew. Blood sprayed. And still, neither relented.
More buildings collapsed.
More people died.
And above it all, the blood moon watched silently.
Unblinking.
The Reaping had no mercy. It had no rules. It came only
to consume.
And it had only just begun.