The Deep Jump To The Exiles

The chamber was cold, silent, and ancient.
Jerrick stood over the open mechanism at the base of the intact Watchtower. Unlike the ruin they had just fled, this structure was a sanctuary—a circular room carved from granite, its curved walls vibrating with passive, humming wards. The only light came from the blue-white runic script etched into the ceiling, bathing the space in a cool, steady glow.
He had spent the last two minutes—seconds after the portal slammed shut—setting the complex energy matrix for the Deep Jump. His hands worked automatically, twisting the crystalline dials and feeding the Queen's remaining magical charge into the matrix. His mind, however, was replaying the last moment on the ridge: the soundless crash, the fierce, finished look in Lyra's eyes.
He didn't look at Kael, who sat slumped against the wall, his arms wrapped protectively around the two silent children.
“Kael, status report,” Jerrick commanded, his voice muffled by the thick air of the chamber.
Kael slowly met his eyes. “Physical status: intact. Psychological status: unstable. Lyra neutralized the wave. She bought us… thirty seconds of safe transit.” He swallowed hard. “I should have gone first. She made me stay.”
Jerrick gave a single, sharp nod—the only form of condolence he was capable of offering in this moment. “She was Shadow Guard. Her orders were to protect the Heartwood. You are the Heartwood’s shield. She completed her mission. Grief is a liability we cannot afford, not yet.”
He turned back to the crystalline array. The matrix was nearly charged. They were safe here for perhaps fifteen minutes, maybe less. The wards only delayed Atlas; they would not stop him.
"My Queen," Jerrick called.
The Queen was leaning against the central pillar, eyes closed, her breathing shallow. She had drunk a sip of water from Jerrick's canteen, but her body was still broken from the clash. She opened her eyes, their sapphire fire dimmed but resolute.
“The Northern Reaches are a scar on the world,” she stated, bypassing pleasantries. "They are too cold, too barren, too far from the Nexus of Power Atlas requires to operate at full strength. It is our only blind spot."
"And the Exiles, my Queen?" Jerrick asked, his fingers flying over the glyphs.
"They are the forgotten," the Queen said, a shadow of pain crossing her face. "Those who refused the Dragon Guard’s oath of service, who sought independence over order. Rogues, assassins, sorcerers who practice the old, raw magic. They hate the authority the King represented. But they despise the chaotic greed of Elder Gods even more."
Jerrick frowned. "To trust those who hate us with your lives..."
"It is not trust, Jerrick," she interrupted, a flash of her old imperiousness returning. "It is leverage. I carry something that the King bequeathed to them long ago—a secret that will ensure their protection. They will protect the children out of obligation, not loyalty. It is the only coin we have left."
The blue-white light of the array intensified, humming into a high-pitched whine. The Deep Jump was ready. This was not the smooth, elegant transit of the Watchtower network; this was a forced tear through reality, designed for emergency relocation to zones outside the realm’s established paths.
“Five seconds to charge peak,” Jerrick muttered. He knelt next to the two children. They were small—too small to be fully Dragon-enhanced, but aware enough to understand the disaster unfolding around them.
"Listen to me," he told the boy, his voice low and firm. "When the light hits, you hold Kael's hand, and you do not let go. Do you understand?"
The boy, no older than seven, nodded jerkily, his eyes wide, yet he squeezed Kael's hand tighter.
"Good," Jerrick said, standing.
He activated his comm unit one last time, reaching the nexus, but only finding the deafening silence of an abandoned, dead line. The Shadow Guard was gone. Only the three of them—four, with the Queen—remained.
A low, resonant thrum shook the Watchtower chamber. It was Atlas, testing the outer wards. The magical silence the Queen had enforced was dissolving rapidly, replaced by pressure that felt like the atmosphere turning to lead.
"Now, Jerrick," the Queen commanded, pushing herself off the pillar.
Jerrick placed his hand on the final activation rune. "Deep Jump to the Northern Reaches. Destination: Exile Gate 9."
He slammed his will into the rune. The blue light in the chamber fractured, exploding into a dazzling, blinding storm of yellow and violet. The floor liquefied into a torrent of raw, tearing energy. The sound was impossible, a million voices screaming the name of God.
Jerrick felt his body stretch, warp, and tear across the dimensional divide. He gripped the Queen's arm, holding onto reality as everything dissolved into chaotic noise and light.
They were out of time. They were out of allies. They were in motion.
And then, silence.
Jerrick opened his eyes. He was lying face-down in a biting, crystalline snow. The air was so cold it burned his lungs. When he looked up, the sky was not the comforting blue-gray of their homeland, but a bruised, bruised purple, dominated by an enormous, broken moon.
He heard Kael's ragged cough nearby.
They had arrived. They were in the Northern Reaches.
The Exile Gate was gone, leaving behind only a smoking patch of ice. The silence was absolute. There were no trees, only massive, jagged shards of black rock thrusting up from the permafrost.
Kael was struggling to sit up, the two children huddled into him like small animals. He was breathing in painful, shallow gasps.
"We made it," Jerrick rasped, trying to sit up, his muscles screaming in protest. "We made it."
"No," a new voice said.
The sound was smooth, female, and utterly devoid of warmth. It came from the top of the nearest shard of black rock, twenty feet above them.
Jerrick hauled himself around, drawing his obsidian blades. Standing on the jagged peak, silhouetted against the broken moon, was a woman. She was wrapped in thick, dark furs and leather, her face concealed by the shadow of her hood, but the power she radiated was unmistakable. She was Dragon-kin, but colder, sharper, and far more dangerous than anything in the Shadow Guard.
She looked down at the four survivors—the wounded Queen, the exhausted Captain, the traumatized Guardian, and the children—and raised a silver-tipped arrow that was nocked onto a wickedly carved bow.
"You brought the King's blood here," the Exile stated, her voice cutting through the cold like ice. "That was your first mistake. I am the Gate Warden. And nobody is welcome."