Prologue: The War 

The air above Grieton City shrieked, not with wind, but with the raw, tearing sound of reality unraveling. The city was a canvas of desolation. The skeletal husks of buildings, choked with dust and rubble, stood as silent witnesses to a catastrophe two centuries past. The Fracture, a jagged tear in the very sky, hung like a gaping, malevolent wound above the city's central plaza, a scar that had festered for over a hundred years in silence. In the past hundred years, the Fracture has become increasingly unstable. The sky behind the fracture grows blacker with each passing day, as the sunlight is ripped from the sky and pushed to the edges of reality. The only light that is left is the red hue of energy that is being bled from the Fracture itself. The Archanay council keeps this part of the world hidden from outside eyes. They do not want the population of Magierra to find out what horrors lie beyond this veil. From the wound, grotesque aberrations known as the Riftborn pour forth in relentless waves, this being the latest of nearly four hundred such attacks that had plagued Magierra since the initial sundering. The frequency of attacks is now chillingly on the rise.

The Riftborn forms are a mockery of life, standing at seven feet tall with the bodies of a human, they have skeletal limbs ending in razor-sharp hooked claws. Their limbs move in unnatural motions like a puppet on a string. Their bodies are wreathed in shadow, and their eyes burn with a malevolent, crimson hunger. Hunger that no matter how much they consume, will never be satiated. They were not merely invaders; they were predators, feasting on the very essence of Magierra's Spell as they surged into the crumbling streets.

In the heart of this desolate maelstrom, the Archanay’s elite fighting unit, the Obsidian Sparks, fought with grim determination, their mission clear: to push back this latest tide and defend what little remained of the city's integrity. Each member moved with a practiced synergy, a deadly dance. There were six Weavers, clad in lighter armor, their movements swift and with precision. They were tethered to long, gleaming swords. Each one glowing as it harnessed the spell, with every swing their swords burned brighter until the power could no longer be harnessed, and a concussive blast dissipated the energy. Their movements were fluid as they unleashed small, concussive explosions that detonated against Riftborn forms. Behind them, four Guardians, their heavy shields emblazoned with protective runes, absorbing blows that would shatter lesser defenses, their spell-infused guns spitting bolts of crackling energy that tore through the shadowy creatures. The units moved in unison, pushing the Riftborn back and inching their way forward behind the iron-clad Weavers. 

At the center of each squad, two Conduits, typically officers, barked orders, their hands manipulating intricate spell-infused devices that conjured temporary barriers or unleashed focused blasts of raw Spell energy. And amidst them all, a vital, moving anchor, was the Sage.

Kaytlin Temprano, the Sage of her unit, moved with a focused intensity, her movements a blur of purpose amidst the pandemonium. Her role was to mend the broken, to snatch lives back from the brink. Her long auburn hair, usually a vibrant cascade, was tightly braided, secured beneath her medic’s hood. Her hazel eyes scanned the carnage, searching for the next soul to save. Her hands, calloused yet gentle, worked with practiced speed, applying the shimmering, golden paste from the mender-bands that hummed softly at her belt. These devices, brilliant feats of magitech, were the brainchild of her husband, Elric. He was back at home, likely hunched over schematics, and taking care of their twelve-year-old son. He was always refining the very tools she now wielded—tools that were the thin, glowing line between life and oblivion for countless soldiers.

"Sage! Down! Need help, now!" A raw, desperate shout pierced the air, closer this time.

Kaytlin pivoted, her gaze snapping to a young Guardian, barely out of training. Guardian Ramwell was just transferred to Kaytlins' unit almost a week before they were ambushed during their sweep of the city. Her shield was cracked, pinning her beneath the skeletal remains of a fallen Riftborn. Her arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, blood blooming dark against her light robes. A second Riftborn, a gaunt, shadowy horror, was already closing in, its crimson eyes fixed on the vulnerable target.

"Hold on!" Kaytlin yelled, her voice strained but firm, as she sprinted towards him, weaving through the desperate, hand-to-hand skirmishes. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of war. She reached Ramwell, her mender-band already glowing, but the Riftborn was quicker. Ramwell raised her caster with her one good arm as the riftborn closed in and fired a shot, but only managed to clip its arm. Its clawed hand lashed out, not at the fallen soldier, but at the beacon of healing light.

Kaytlin threw herself forward, a shield of flesh and will, protecting the injured Guardian. The blow struck her side, a searing, icy pain blossoming across her ribs. She cried out, falling over the cracked shield, but her grip on the mender-band remained firm. With a surge of desperate strength, she lifted herself off of the shield and pressed it against the Guardian’s mangled arm, the golden light flaring, knitting bone and flesh back together with astonishing speed.

The Riftborn hissed, its attention momentarily diverted by the sudden surge of Spell energy. Just then, a burly Weaver, his longsword singing, crashed into the creature, driving it back with a thunderous blow.

"Kaytlin! You alright?" Weaver Agrun roared, pulling her to her feet.

She nodded, gasping, her hand pressed to her side. Letting the mender-band do its work, sealing the laceration. A strange, deep-seated chill radiated from the point of impact. It wasn't the familiar ache of a healing wound. It was an insidious cold, a creeping numbness that seemed to seep into her very core. She looked down at the faint, starburst scar left by the mender-band. A tiny, almost invisible puncture mark, barely a pinprick, marred the center of the healed flesh. It was as if something had passed through the healing, leaving a silent, unseen residue.

She dismissed it as the shock of battle, the lingering adrenaline. The war raged on, and Kaytlin, ever the dedicated healer, pushed the strange sensation aside. There were lives to save.

Guardian Ramwell stumbled to her feet and, with a large exhale, grumbled, “Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Kaytlin weezed back. She was still out of breath from trying to close the distance between the two of them moments before. 

Just as quickly as the ambush started, it was over. The squad took inventory of their surroundings. Conduit Markem was the first to speak. 

“We need a headcount! Call out if you are injured but still breathing.” He barked the order. 

Kaytlin was the first to respond, “Sage restored.” 

The other Conduit, Conduit Aimor, responded next. “Conduits reporting.” 

Next were the Guardians, all four called out in unison, “Guardians standing tall.” Ramwell lagging behind a moment. 

Lastly, the Weavers called out, “Weavers threading,” but Kaytlin noticed that one was missing. She desperately looked around to find the missing soldier, while the weavers who came to the same realization were doing the same. Everyone's eyes converged on the same location at the same time. There in the abandoned street, almost twenty yards away, lay Weaver Garick’s body lifeless. 

“I didn’t even hear him call for help,” Kaytlin said with anguish in her voice. 

“From the looks of it he was struck in the back. He didn’t even know it was coming” Conduit Markem replied. 

As Kaytlin moved toward the body Weaver Breaker pushed her aside, and grabbed Garicks lifeless hand. “Isn’t there anything you can do? Save him please.” Breaker pleaded. Tears starting to well in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry Breaker but there are somethings that can’t be mended.” Kaytlin said. Just then her side started to burn where the Riftborn sliced her and she winced in pain.

“Lets get back to base and report in.” Conduit Aimor suggested. 

The war-torn silence of the field hospital was a stark contrast to the chaos of the battlefield. The scent of antiseptic and stale blood hung heavy in the air, replacing the ozone and fear. Kaytlin sat on a cot, her uniform shed for a simple medical gown, a faint, starburst scar on her side the only visible reminder of her brush with the Riftborn. Across from her, Elric, his usually meticulous hair looking disheveled, as he paced the small, sterile room. His hands, usually so precise with intricate components, were now clasped tightly behind his back, a nervous habit she rarely saw.

A stoic-faced Healer, robed in the deep blue of the Elarian Institute’s medical division, entered the room, a data-slate clutched in his hand. His expression was grim, devoid of the usual professional detachment.

"Kaytlin, Elric," the Healer began, his voice low, "the preliminary scans are in." He paused, taking a deep breath. "The mender-band did its work perfectly on the laceration. But… there was something else."

Kaytlin felt a cold dread begin to coil in her stomach. That strange chill she’d felt on the battlefield, dismissed as shock, now resurfaced with an unsettling clarity. Elric stopped pacing, his gaze fixed on the Healer.

"What do you mean, 'something else'?" Elric's voice was tight, strained.

The Healer activated the data-slate, projecting a shimmering, three-dimensional image of Kaytlin’s internal Spell-flow. It was mostly vibrant, a healthy network of golden light, but in one small, almost imperceptible area near her ribs, where the Riftborn had struck, a faint, dark tendril pulsed, like a shadow clinging to light.

"We've identified a unique viral agent," the Healer continued, his words slow and deliberate. "It's… unlike anything we've encountered before. It appears to have been introduced at the point of impact. A microscopic foreign body, carrying what we are tentatively calling the Nexora virus."

Kaytlin felt the air leave her lungs. A virus? How could a Riftborn, creatures of pure Spell-devouring shadow, carry a virus?

"But… it's so small," Elric murmured, leaning closer to the projection, his inventor's mind already trying to dissect the anomaly. "And her Spell-flow is otherwise strong. Can't we… can't we simply filter it out? Or use a counter-agent?"

The Healer shook his head, his gaze filled with a profound sadness. "That's where it becomes… complicated. The Nexora virus, on its own, appears inert. Harmless. But Kaytlin… your Spirit-veil Disorder. It’s dormant, yes, but it creates a unique resonance within your Spell-flow. The Nexora virus, it seems, is designed to exploit that resonance. To activate it."

Kaytlin’s blood ran cold. Her SVD. The rare, almost mythical condition that caused her Spell-veil, the protective layer around her core Spell, to be thinner, more permeable than most. It had been a secret, a vulnerability she’d always managed.

"It will intertwine with your SVD," the Healer explained, his voice barely above a whisper. "Slowly at first. Insidiously. It will begin to unravel your Spell-flow from within, feeding on it, mutating it. It's not a rapid onset. It's… a slow decline. We don't have a cure, Kaytlin. Not for this. Not for the Nexora virus specifically targeting and activating Spirit-veil Disorder."

Elric stumbled back, hitting the wall with a dull thud. "A slow decline? What are you saying? How long?"

The Healer closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of his words heavy in the room. "Years, perhaps. It's impossible to say for certain. But it will progress. And eventually… it will consume your Spell entirely. There will be nothing left to sustain you."

Kaytlin looked at Elric, his face pale, his eyes wide with a dawning horror. The victory at Grieton, the lives she had saved, suddenly felt hollow. The enemy hadn't just taken a piece of the city; it had planted a seed of destruction within her, a silent, unseen war that had just begun.