The Extra's Rise

Media drones finally dared to drift closer, their lenses blinking red, green, blue. One caught Arthur's profile against the dulling stone of the basilisk's skull. Another panned across the ward choir, catching tired smiles and the conductor pinching the bridge of her nose with shaking fingers. If the footage went out today, it would change more than morale.

Ian pictured what would happen when the rest of the world saw a man walk into a Calamity and end it without bleeding out in someone's arms. He pictured doctrine meetings in Valdris. He pictured the other continents updating terms that had been carved in cold fear for a century. Calamity as a category had been a ceiling. After today, it might become a task.

Marcus seemed to be thinking along the same lines. He turned to Arthur again. "This will unsettle the world."

"It needs unsettling," Arthur said. "Calamity is not a rank. It's a situation. Treat it like one and it stops owning your language."

Lyralei's mouth curved, not quite a smile. "You speak like someone who has seen the worst version of that word."

"I have," Arthur said simply. "And I won't see it again."

Ian had heard rumors about the Second Calamity and Avalon. He had seen the after-action reports that weren't meant for him. He knew Rachel had stood over Arthur for hours, pouring herself empty to keep him moving long enough to win. The man standing on the Iron Line now wasn't the boy in those reports. Mid Radiant-rank had given him reach and control that changed the conversation. The Grey wrapped around him like it had always been waiting for this.

He took a breath and gave voice to what many of them were thinking.

"For the record," he said, straight-backed despite the ache setting into his shoulders, "on behalf of the Southern continent, the Viserion family, and our allied houses, I offer formal thanks to the Second Hero for today. You saved thousands of lives in an hour. We will honor that."

Arthur didn't look comfortable with titles, but he didn't reject the moment. He inclined his head. "Then let's save more by finishing the job."

He turned a little, listening to two voices at once. Ian followed his gaze and spotted Valeria's subtle shimmer along his gauntlet and Luna's flick of attention from a brace fitting three tents away. Arthur's expression softened at the sight of Luna coaxing a stubborn private back onto his stretcher with one raised eyebrow and a stern whisper.

"Erebus will coordinate with your ward engineers," Arthur added. "We'll leave the Redeemers and obelisks where you want them for the day. Valeria has a list of Aetherite posts that need rest or replacement. We'll cover the gaps until your crews swap them."

Marcus nodded. "Accepted. We'll double the teams."

"And I'll tighten patrols on the western slope," Lyralei said. "If there's another seam, I want to find it before it opens."

Ian looked up at the ridge one last time. The tear was a scar now, not a wound. In some places the stone glittered faintly, as if grateful. He flexed his hands, felt the tired tremor in his fingers, and finally allowed his body to admit it had been afraid.

He had felt the basilisk's pressure and thought, so this is what a demigod feels like. He had braced for the long grind: steady losses, careful exchanges, hanging on until a better answer arrived. Arthur had been the better answer. Not loud. Not cruel. Just precise.

Ian would be Radiant soon. He could feel the seam thin under his feet, the threshold close. Watching Arthur set the bar didn't discourage him. It set direction. Domains could be more than armor. Unity could be more than edge. If he wanted a world where Calamity was a task, he'd have to help make it.

A runner jogged up, saluted, and addressed Lyralei and Marcus both. "Palace line is stabilized, Your Majesties. Council requests a live brief in fifteen. Media wants a statement."

Lyralei's eyes flicked to the cameras and back. "They can have a sentence now."

She took one step forward, queen again, voice steady enough to carry without aid.

"The Southern continent is secure," she said, not shouting. "Our people stood firm. Our allies stood with us. The Iron Line holds."

The words rippled down the road and up into the ridges. People stopped what they were doing, listened, and straightened.

She turned back to Arthur. "Will you come to Valdris after we secure the sector? There are matters we should discuss in quiet."

"Once the wounded are clear," he said. "We'll follow."

Ian caught his eye and found humor there, faint and tired and real. He returned it.

"Next time," Ian said, "give me a head start so I can pretend I helped."

"You did," Arthur said. "The choir is still singing because you didn't make this about you."

Ian didn't argue. He'd hold that line close later when the adrenaline dipped and sleep wouldn't come.

He looked down the road where soldiers were already coiling cable, resetting anchors, and painting fresh marks on stones that had just remembered what they were for. The undead moved among them like careful ghosts, taking orders from living officers without friction. Redeemers prayed in low voices that sounded more like math than faith.

A small gust kicked dust across Arthur's boots. He tapped his heel once, testing the feel of the ground, as if asking the world if it was done for today.

It answered by staying still.

Ian knew what came next: reports, repairs, the long work that didn't make headlines. He also knew what had just happened would change more than schedules. A Calamity had been rewritten in an afternoon. The word would survive, because people like big words, but the fear glued to it had lost a layer of bite.

Someday, when another ridge split open on another continent, someone would pull up today's footage, point at the man with black hair and a Grey crown and say, it can be done. Even better, they'd say, here is how. Fence. Choir. Calm. Pin. Cut.

The world had been deciding for a long time that Calamities were true disaster. Today, the world had been corrected.